


The Soldier and the Spy

by Esbe



Series: The Soldier and The Spy (series) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Freeform, M/M, Mention of Child Abuse, Original Character Death(s), POV John Watson, Period-Typical Homophobia, Victorian, mention of PTSD, mention of mental abuse during kidnapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-05-01 23:26:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 57,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5225225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esbe/pseuds/Esbe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is invalided and returns to England. He meets a mysterious stranger in a dark alley.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doctor Watson is drawn into the game by a mysterious stranger. Is it a mere chance?

The fog was impenetrable and Dr. John Watson shortened his usual confident long strides (for a short man that is) to ensure he didn’t bump into anyone or anything. The cold was merciless for his shoulder, which was now throbbing with a vengeance. It always did. Upon his return from war, he wasn’t sure which he hated more, the fog or the rain. He shrugged off his self-pity and walked around a couple. The lady held the man’s arm and he walked slowly, either to match her pace or more likely to lengthen their time together. Yes, John Watson was a romantic.

He stopped at the corner waiting for the traffic to clear. The hansom cabs and private coaches were sedate as well but one never knew. As he crossed, he made a sudden decision to take a shorter route. He usually avoided the ill lit and filthy alley, but he couldn’t wait to get back to his rooms. He couldn’t spare the few shillings for a cab yet. Perhaps once he found steady work, he mused as he walked in.

He was sure he was now halfway through the alley (since it bent to the left there), when he realised he was being followed. Really, a man of his sense and experience not realising that sooner was unforgivable. He switched his walking stick to the left hand and his bag to the other but the man behind was bold enough to slip his hand into Watson’s left elbow and pronounce distinctly, “There will be no need for that, Doctor. I assure you, I mean you no harm.”

The voice was London gentry. The tone was confident, almost arrogant. Watson turned to look at his accoster. The man drew back, keeping his hold on the other’s elbow. He was tall and though the fog, an upturned collar and a top hat obscured his other features, a sharp long nose was clearly visible. “I mean it. I barely need half an hour of your time and your expertise.” The man continued in the same tone, an added hint of command in it. He then gestured onward and they started to walk.

Watson’s mind was filled with conjectures but he was a rather no-nonsense soldier who went with his gut. His gut wasn’t warning him of danger, yet. So he acquiesced, the pain in his shoulder forgotten.

They got out of the alley and made their way somewhat to the left, away from his rooms. The stranger knew his way well enough and he steered them swiftly. The approaching dusk made it darker and Watson hoped the gaslights would be lit soon. They walked for perhaps five minutes before the gentleman spoke again, “Along with your safety, I can make one more assurance, sir. The task at hand will not impugn upon your honour.”

A few more steps away a closed carriage stopped near them and the gentleman tilted his head. The Doctor entered the carriage first, and sat facing the back as protocol dictated. The man seated himself on the other seat, closed the door, and raised the wick of the lamp inside. The curtains were drawn and the plush interiors made the space feel snug. The welcoming warmth and light inside filled him with relief. He finally took a look at the stranger. A gentleman. Yes, undoubtedly. Regal bearing, that aloofness they all affected so easily. Red hair slicked back, grey-blue eyes, that sharp nose, and a sardonic, determined mouth. It was not a charming face but an attractive one. A little pale in the light of the lamp. The shoulders were broad but the body was lean. The quality and cut of the coat and waistcoat underneath, the gold watch chain, and the silver head on the cane all proclaimed wealth. But it wasn’t wealth earned in Manchester or the East Indies. It was wealth inherited, born in and bred into generations.

The man leaned back and looked at him with a smile. “Thank you for your patience, Doctor. Your questions then. We shall not exchange names. I know of you because our paths cross daily. I know where you reside, your profession and your recent past in the army. No more. I requested your presence today because you are a man loyal to his country and capable of holding his silence and because you are a physician capable of tending to wounds. I shall be your patient today. After you, please.”

Watson would have lifted a brow at the man’s choice of words that this had been a request, but the carriage had stopped. They were entering from the mews. So his presence there was going to be kept a secret as well, Watson thought, as they crossed the small garden and entered. The house was large and richly appointed. The hallways were well lit and warm. Strangely no servants crossed their path as they made their way to an upper floor. He was shown into a small sitting room, undoubtedly adjoining a bedroom. The fire was blazing and the stranger played butler and took their coats and hats and draped them on the back of a chair.

“Please make yourself comfortable, Doctor. I will be but a moment.” He disappeared into an adjoining room.

A few minutes later Watson heard a few murmurs and then the stranger returned. He was now dressed only in his shirt. “Please excuse my shirt sleeves, sir. I have a wound on my back that needs to be examined. I beg you to take a look. I have asked for hot water and clean bandages to be brought up.”

A discreet knock and a soft-footed servant entered bearing a tray with water, basin and clean cloth. The man set these on a table and stood back against a wall. His host stripped bare to his waist and sat on the divan facing away. Doctor Watson started to peel away the bandage he had rightly assessed to be just below the ribs. As he did so he could not help noticing the lean muscles of his patient’s back. It was the body of a fencer. The skin was pale and smooth. Only his forearms were dusted with some reddish golden hair. One arm bore a thin long scar, and there was one more across one shoulder. The final layers of the bandage had to be moistened with water before he could remove it fully. It was a wide cut, a few hours old. The blood had started crusting but it still looked raw and gaping. The skin around was inflamed.

“Sir, could you please tell me what happened exactly? Not why. Simply what.”

“What ever for?”

“I need to know if I should probe the wound for dirt or debris. If the blade was dirty or rusted or perhaps a bit of fabric was caught in it and pushed inside, did you wet it or dirty it perchance, et cetera.”

“I see. No, the blade was clean, and sharp. It was a short one about three inches long and an inch wide at base. I twisted away as it was plunged and hence got away with a slice instead of a stab. It was sharp enough to cut across thick wool like butter. My associate confiscated the blade immediately and he washed and staunched the wound as best as he could. This happened at six o’clock this morning. My trusted physician is unavailable at the moment and there was no time to seek another before my next appointment. It has been a mere twinge through the day. However, I could feel it hurting worse now and, hence, sought your assistance.”

Doctor Watson cleaned the wound carefully and checked for signs of contamination. “It will need to be sewn. I don’t have a needle in my valise.”

“Of course. Paver…”

The manservant disappeared into the adjoining room and returned with a box. Inside it were all that one would require to tend to wounds - rubbing alcohol, ointments, bandages, needles, and catgut, all of it. It made the good doctor wonder how often such ministrations were required.

“Not very often, Doctor. And no I don’t need anything to dull the pain," the man said, once again guessing his thoughts astutely.

Watson went ahead with his task quietly and efficiently. The man winced a bit and grunted once or twice, but held stoic. He then spread a salve on the wound, cushioned it with a folded piece and then wrapped a bandage to hold it in place. He gave a satisfied nod to himself and rose to wash his hands. He kept at it long enough to give his patient ample time to re-dress.

He turned around at his host’s voice. “Since you have been so gracious, sir, would you mind if I kept to shirt sleeves for the remainder of your visit? It is easier.”

“But of course. In fact I insist. And please have them bring you some restorative. I will leave some powders for you to get a good sleep.” He fetched a bottle from his bag and placed it on the table. The servant had cleared the room.

“Sir, before I leave I have a few simple requests to make.”

“Leave? But you must take tea with me. It is gone half past already. I beg you keep me company for some more time.”

And so he had. The tea had been elaborate and delicious. Hardly the stuff of a bachelor’s establishment. Why he needed to remind himself of that, the doctor refused to ask. All he knew was that this encounter with his ~~stranger~~ , ~~host~~ , patient was making him feel… ~~better~~ , ~~needed~~ , ~~alive~~ , ~~attracted~~ , curious. Perhaps it was that reason that his eyes kept straying to the bare neck of his host, skipping to the long elegant fingers, and those piercing eyes.

The conversation was interesting and light enough that almost another half hour passed before he took his leave. He made his requests to help the healing as he prepared to leave. The wound must be kept dry. Bathing was to be avoided for at least a week. The bandages should be changed every day. Any sign of putrefaction must be reported to a physician (he forbore to say to himself), as must any accompanying fever.

He wanted to add a few other things, like please don’t strain the stitches, or you may ask me to attend to you any time, or please take better care so you don’t need a physician again, but again restrained himself.

Once again he was shown out through the back garden and ushered into the same carriage. The covered curtains ensured that he didn’t know what route it took, but in less than ten minutes his journey was over. He recalled the stranger’s words that their paths crossed daily.

He hoped they met again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finally back from the vacation. It was a great three weeks.  
> This one is once again the same slash but I'm not sure whether I'll actually have any romance or smut in it. So if thats what you are looking for then sorry that its not for you. But I do hope that you will continue reading and find something of interest. Because finally I'm writing a longish multi chapter fic with a plot. (Yep thats right)  
> As usual its gonna be Monday to Monday. The plot (including the end) is all done up in my head and so theres no way I'll abandon this (famous last words?) No seriously I mean it. Else I'd have never put this up here.  
> The tags might change as it evolves so keep a look out. But going by my no show on smut so far it may never cross the Mature line. However, there may be a bit of violence in the future.  
> Yes, its a Victorian setting. And yes, I'm flailing around with the language, setting and the fact that I have minimal understanding of the medical practices then and have had to google just too many things. But I plan to write it anyways because MirithGriffin suggested that it would suit my writing style. Thats two prompts in a row so maybe I can do them. Yay! So here on please feel free to send them my way. It might just jog my muse. (horribly scrambled metaphor that)  
> I see myself returning to edit this a bit. So if you find errors or have suggestions please do drop a note. I have no beta and so all such comments are doubly welcome.  
> Anyone else noticed the horribly cliched title? I wish I was better at it. After the debacle of the story title, I simply abandoned the idea of titling my chapters. It would have just made me despair. Does anyone have a better suggestion please?  
> And no I won't abandon my tiny boats. I hope to continue writing them as well.  
> PS: Is there anyone out there who hasn't guessed who the mysterious stranger is?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another chance encounter?  
> Is the universe truly so lazy?

It was a fortnight before they met again.

Doctor Watson had been taken on as a part-time partner in a practice the previous week and that, as well as the envelope he had found in one of his pockets a day after that strange encounter, had eased his financial concerns. He would have taken a hansom tonight but he couldn’t find one. It was a bit late after all. His hosts had been genial, the dinner had been sumptuous and the other guests interesting. Also, this walk gave him time to muse on things, things that he couldn’t and wouldn’t write in his journal.

Things like a stranger's eyes intent on him, of a voice that answered his unuttered queries, a smile that lit up his inner recesses without ever touching the lips, a pale back that belied its strength, a scar that beckoned him, a stranger’s blind trust that he would keep faith, and yes the copperplate script on an envelope that simply had a single line accompanying the money (too much if you asked him), _“For services rendered.”_

To say that they _met_ would perhaps be incorrect. Once again, the stranger blindsided him as he walked back to his hotel after a dinner engagement. It was pitch dark and the cold was far worse. The fog earlier in the month had given way to bitter winds. The doctor was thankful for the unexpected largesse that had paid for his new coat and old friends who had filled his belly with warm food and wine. The street lamps had been lit but were of little use. The stranger simply slipped along his side with a _good evening, Doctor_ , as if they were old acquaintances and met regularly.

Then he carried on a one sided conversation as he steered them away from the doctor’s intended path by once more answering unasked questions like, _yes, the stitches had been removed_ , _it has healed well_ , and _no, there had been no infection nor accompanying fever_. After a while he abruptly stopped his rambling monologue and said, “I need your assistance again, Doctor. Oh! do not be alarmed. No one is injured or ill. The task at hand, sir. You speak _Pashto_. I thought so. I will need you to listen to a conversation for me, please, and translate.”

He then turned aside, walked up a few steps, raised his walking stick and knocked at a door.

The house front, the door and the knocker were all non-descript. Doctor Watson knew he would be hard put to identify it again. But, the rush of blood to his limbs, the thrum in his heart, the thrall of the stranger, his stranger, were easy to identify. So was his calm acceptance that the stranger would lead and he would follow. He and this trust were old friends now, having visited frequently this last fortnight. He had taught himself that it would not do to dwell deeply on the reasons. It simply was.

The door was opened almost immediately and their great coats, sticks and hats were taken away. They entered a large hall with groups of people sitting all over. It was comfortably warm. It was neither well lit nor dark. It had pockets of light. It could best be described as - welcoming. Soft music wafted in the background though there was no band in sight. Settees, divans, sofas, tables were scattered through it. The buzz of conversation was subdued, discreet. Most people seemed to be engaged in ... Oh. Oh! It was one of _those_ establishments.

There was a wide variety of people- men and women, men and men, women in men's garb, couples and groups, some sharing a drink, talking, others stealing touches and heated glances, some surreptitiously, others boldly. He looked up at his companion but the man walked on. Not hurried, but purposefully. So, like their previous encounter, he held his tongue and kept his thoughts to himself. At the back of the hall were enclosures with Japanese silk screens, the lights throwing beautiful translucent shadows around. An illusion of privacy. They entered one of them.

A couple of comfortable armchairs and a corner table with candles greeted them. Watson was hard put not to stare at his companion. The lights and screens were shading his skin delightfully and combined with what he had seen in the great hall his own skin prickled in anticipation. As they sat, the gentleman touched his finger to his lips and gestured to the screen just behind Watson. Ah yes, _the task at hand_. He leaned back and listened keenly. At first, there was nothing distinct, then he made out the clink of glasses covering a soft murmur of voices. Yes, it was Pashto. It had been nearly five months since he had heard a word of it, but it came back easily.

There were two voices. One was pleading with the other, and for a very good reason it seemed, since the other voice was autocratic, cold and menacing.

_“Please, Sire!”_

_“The Lion is getting impatient.”_

_“Please, I can’t help it. The Eagle hasn’t responded yet.”_

_“…”_

_“I truly haven’t heard a word. I am trying my best, please believe me.”_

_“Are you? The horses will be moved next month. The waters are needed elsewhere. Get the Eagle before that and your tardiness will be forgiven.” _

_“The horses…? But… you said we had three more months?”_

_“…”_

_“I’m sorry. Forgive me. I didn’t mean… Just that I can't…”_

_“If you cannot then we have other dogs on our leash… The end of this month. No more.”_

_“…”_

_“Now regarding the squirrel. Do away with it. It is annoying us too much.”_

_“Y...yes, Khalifa.”_

_“Idiot! Do not call me that.”_

There was a noise as someone scrambled to their feet. The gentleman pressed his finger to Watson’s arm, restraining him.

 _“We shall meet…”_ Here the voices grew faint as the speakers departed.

They sat thus for a few minutes. Then the gentleman rose and gestured to Watson who followed him out. They were about to exit the enclosure when the stranger quickly retreated back inside and turned to face him. But he didn’t even glance at Watson. Merely, pushed him back inside and cocked his head, listening intently. Watson looked up in confusion only to notice their shadow on the screen opposite, thrown by the candles in the corner. And while they were barely touching, their shadows seemed to be embracing.

His breath caught in his throat. It seemed like an age passed until the gentleman nodded and turned back again. Watson was grateful for small mercies that in all that time he hadn’t been spared a single glance. They collected their things and walked out. A short distance later, they entered the same carriage as before.

“Sir, you have questions and I can answer a few. But the translation first, if you please.” He related the conversation as best as he could and the stranger listened intently without interrupting. It was only at the mention of the squirrel that his eyes finally crinkled into a slight smile. He leaned back at the end and asked his first question.

“You are sure the man said _Khalifa_?”

“Yes.”

He nodded to himself, smiling and then looked up.

“Would you join me for an aperitif, Doctor?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the wonderful response to the first chapter. (the text is sedate but believe you me I have been giddily skipping all over the place in glee, imagine Rumplestiltskin in that famous scene, minus a beard but equally manic)  
> The kudos and the comments are so encouraging that I'm tempted to post more often. But then I'm reminded of the many 'errors' in the hastily written and posted first chapter and stop myself. I'm also reminded of the many 'dry' spells I have too often for my liking, when I am pretty sure I will never ever be able to write anything again (drama queen)  
> For those of you who have shown such faith and subscribed to this fic I have no words except to promise not to leave this unfinished.  
> Those who commented, you have my heart.  
> For all the kudos givers, mwaaah! I almost want to post this as a series instead of a multi chapter fic so you can click again :D (greedy me)
> 
> I know unlike my notes my summaries are always too pithy but I can't write one without giving away the mystery, which is also the reason I am not attempting to title the chapters, so bear with the stupid title and awkward summaries please.  
> Also, I'm fairly new at this so may forget tags or to add characters as the story evolves. Please please point them out.  
> Once again since this is unbetaed, there will be mistakes in both editing as well as the use of the correct language, setting, etc. Please do let me know.  
> Question- Would it be better if I followed ACD’s lead and wrote it in first person? Watson narrating? I wonder.  
> Cant wait to hear from you all.  
> ____________  
> Finally, a few (?!) notes on the story.  
> 1\. As you have recognised it is a mix of BBC and ACD characterisations. Physically they are very much the former (Martin Freeman and Mark Gatiss! dreamy sigh) Also, the part where Watson is both a doctor and a soldier stays.  
> 2\. But I have taken a bit of the ACD Mycroft, especially where Sherlock praises him as "the most indispensable man in the country" or having the tidiest and most orderly brain, with the greatest capacity for storing facts, of any man living  
> 3\. I also like his depiction in the movie- "The Private Life of Sherlock Homes" where they conjecture that Mycroft is either the head or at least a senior agent in the British secret service. So you know whats happening here. For those who are particular- Yes MI5 and MI6 werent founded till 1909 but there must have been some form of them at Whitehall.  
> 4\. Further into the story you will notice quotes from ACD works and I hope it will be fun for you all to recognise them as it was for me to include them.  
> 5\. The Victorian times were extremely forbidding especially for M/M romance. But if I wanted my Watson to continue being an Afghan war veteran then I had no choice (I'm kinda trying for end of 1880 end of the second Anglo Afghan war but please don't expect historical accuracy). And yes, until fairly recently being a homosexual and a secret agent was dangerous in most countries and could be used as blackmail material to ‘turn’ the agent. However, we will ignore that part please. 'Cos there are complications enough.  
> 6\. I am still conflicted about the whole club scene but I wanted to bring out the sexual tension and no other plot point suggested itself. Plus it promises to be a good place to revisit (wink wink). I am assuming that such places always existed through all times. I am still tempted to make it Regency and get away with more seductive scenes. But again my smut isn't as good yet. Perhaps I'll just write a ficlet in that setting to scratch that itch. So here it will be smouldering looks and fleeting touches for the foreseeable future.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What would you ask if I permitted you a question?

They followed the same routine as before till they reached the same set of rooms, minus the bandages, thankfully. Also, regretfully, minus the shirt sleeves. The servant, the same one as before, came up with a bottle of brandy and left them alone. The gentleman poured some into the accompanying snifters and handed Watson one. He sighed contentedly as he took a sip. Both the doctor and the soldier in John Watson knew how to bide his time. A fever would break in its own time and the clarion call never came when impatiently awaited.

The gentleman finished his first round and poured himself another, he settled down, looking into his glass as if searching for words. He then seemed to resolve himself, looked up and started speaking. “Since our last meeting I have learnt your name and a bit more of your recent history, though I will not utter the former even in these walls. It seems only fair that I introduce myself, since we are now allies.” The tone wasn’t condescending, yet Watson felt as if he were being granted a privilege. “You may call me Scott. I am a minor official in the government, loyal to the Queen. The conversation you translated today will hopefully help us avert a crisis. You have my gratitude for that. You must think us dim not having an interpreter at hand but there was none available at short notice. I learnt of the rendezvous site just a few moments before I met you and for that, sir, I thank providence. To your next question- had I not met you, I would have memorised the words and related them to the best of my ability. I rarely forget things.” The last was a simple assertion and not a boast and Watson could easily believe it.

“I have been discreet about our association and your invaluable assistance in both instances for your own safety. Please do not think other wise. I am afraid I cannot say more except repeat my sincere gratitude for your assistance. However, in deference to your patience thus far you may ask me one question, sir, with no promises of an answer. I do promise that I shall not lie in response.”

Once again the last statement had the air of a boon granted. Watson placed his snifter on the table beside him and looked assessing at his host. He had had a large number of questions and many of them remained unanswered. But strangely only one burnt his conscious thought, “You are _The Squirrel_ , aren’t you?”

His eyes flared and the man ducked his head. Shy or dissembling? It was hard to tell. Only the very stillness of his body told of his surprise. Then slowly he put down his glass and looked up into Watson’s eyes. In a quiet sincere voice he said, “In view of my recent promises, sir, I must beg off replying.”

The earnestness in those eyes consumed Watson and he was transported back to the enclosure. But there he had been alone in the embrace of those shadows, here the man, _Scott,_ seemed to wish he would _see_. “My lord…”

“Don’t… I… I am not...” He interrupted.

“Sir…” Watson started again but was once more interrupted.

“You were not surprised by the club. Not even a flinch.”

“I have been a soldier.” There was no use pretending that he did not understand what was being referred to.

“Ah.”

They lapsed into silence. Watson was flustered by all that had happened. The squirrel! Is that why he was attacked previously? How much danger was he in? Why did he tell Watson? Did he truly trust him so much, and at so short an acquaintance? And oh lord! had he detected Watson's interest at the club? The near confession, the sincere plea to be understood and believed, the allusion to the scenes at the club. He wasn't sure what to make of any of it. He decided to retreat.

“Sir, it is late and I must take your leave. I... I have found employment since...” He wasn't sure why, but he wanted to explain.

“Of course.” The man interrupted again. But he neither removed his eyes nor moved otherwise. Watson felt trapped, wishing _something_ would happen. He wanted to do something, anything, to reach out, or cry out, an assurance, a plea, a name, something. He waited. Finally, faint steps outside the room broke the moment. The servant entered with a polite knock.

“Yes?”

“You asked for the carriage at half past, sir.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

He rose up as Watson collected his coat, and other things from the very same chair as last time. He turned around to bid good bye to his host and found the man close enough to tower over him.

“Good night, Doctor.” He extended a hand, palm upwards.

Watson placed his own in it, unable to look up for the fear of what his own eyes may reflect. “Good night, Mr. Scott.” He said withdrawing his hand and stepping out.

The journey home was a repeat once again and he barely had time to collect his thoughts when he found himself in his own room. Once again there were things he dared not record in his journal. Some for fear of indiscretion, but most because he could not understand them fully. He had two mysteries. As he lay under the blankets that night, his mind was filled with images of the parts of the evening he had spent with _Mr. Scott_. It ran in two streams – the mystery of the overheard conversation and the mystery of the man.

To call the conversation intriguing would be terribly moderating. That they spoke in a code was obvious. The lion, eagle, horses, and water were all recognisable as codes. And so was THE SQUIRREL. He thrilled recalling that last bit. He still couldn't understand the faith and the plea that had shone in the man's eyes at the near confession. He had seen the violent consequences of the man’s work and had a strange urge to return that very moment and beg him to not take any chances with his well being. Or at least offer his own self as a shield the next time. He shied at the last but he couldn’t stop thinking about the man.

 **The man**. He had a hard time imagining him as plain Mr. Scott. It didn’t fit. Perhaps he had built him into far more than the fact, his mind admonished. No, the glimpses he had had of the man’s world told him he was far more than another wealthy man. He had been so sure that he was nobility. But if he said he wasn’t then Watson would believe him. He was sure that the man was… a... a spy? It seemed a rather unsavoury term for one loyal to the crown. Once again his mind ridiculed him for attributing noble motives to a stranger.

But he didn’t feel like a stranger. The man had termed them allies and Watson had felt a kinship with him. Oh, but John Watson, you felt far more than kinship, mocked his conscience.

He turned over and tried to divert his thoughts. But all he could think of was being in the presence of Mr. Scott. His voice, his lean frame, his eyes. Goosebumps erupted all over his body as he recalled those eyes. They had a language of their own and they did not lie. Surely they did not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These were times when spying in general was not considered respectable in society. So yes in fact a spy was a dirty word.
> 
> And generally if one did give their name it would be the family name/ surname and not their first name. Hence, Mr. Scott.
> 
> I have no idea why but I don't like the idea of the Holmeses as nobility. If I ever wrote a medieval prince romancing a commoner story I'd end up with a pauper Sherlock enticing a noble prince of the realm!
> 
> ____________
> 
> So far I have two ideas on where this is going but neither has the 'slash' going much further! So what do you think? Will they ever get there?  
> Maybe I should simply let it be a casefic.
> 
> PS- yes shirt sleeves are a big deal.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Sherlock Homes.  
> And...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry folks. Just realised I had posted a slightly older version of the chapter. One minor edit. Not much but may help build the relation between Holmes, Watson and Mrs. H

Two days later he met his old mate Michael Stamford. During dinner he mentioned that he was seeking cheap but better accommodations and within a week he was sharing a set of rooms with an eccentric called Sherlock Holmes. Now he had another set of mystery on his hands, along with comfortable accommodations, a shared medical practice and yes a friend.

It was soon clear that Mr. Sherlock Holmes was a detective. A scientist, a student of human nature (mostly vices), exceptionally observant, a splendid violinist, ignorant of popular literature or politics (unless it pertained to a case), a boxer, and swordsman, but mostly he was a private detective. At least two of Scotland Yard’s detectives consulted him frequently and his reputation was steadily growing. He was also arrogant, frequently dismissive and rude, inhumanly rational, a flamboyant show-off, a consummate actor, brilliantly intelligent, and still very much a mystery.

The man had the mood swings of a child. He could be brooding one moment and manically gleeful the next, frenziedly active or languid and inert. Ordinariness bored him, people irritated him and he could be scathing in his criticism of both. And occasionally he would lapse into a torpor of drugs. The Doctor hated those lapses. He much preferred when his friend came back from an occasional bout in the boxing ring. The scrapes and bruises were easier to tend to. He wondered how a man who prized his intellect could risk it with narcotics.

Being in almost constant company ensured that his new friend occupied his mind often. The fact that Holmes invited Watson along for his detective work kept him physically occupied as well. Watson had always kept a journal and soon he was chronicling details of the cases that the detective solved as well. Sometimes, if discretion permitted, he would read out those entries out loud to Mrs. Hudson, their landlady. At such times, Holmes would scoff at what he termed his romanticised and unscientific narrative.

The mysteries of Mr. Scott and his work took a back seat, but there were nights when the doctor wondered about _the man_.

He did not regret taking up his new rooms but it had removed him from the locale where Mr. Scott reported that their paths crossed daily. He wondered if their paths would cross again. He tried telling himself, unsuccessfully, that it was all to his own good as he was getting far too entrenched in a stranger’s affairs no matter what the latter said. There were days too when he passed by his old haunts and he had the urge to look around seeking the familiar tall form, or to find the entrance at those mews that he was sure he could trace his steps to. He told himself, equally unsuccessfully, that the stranger too had been frequenting his thoughts alarmingly often and a fair bit of distance was prudent. He did wish him well and hoped he was safe.

But mostly he wished he had gotten up the courage to look up into the man’s eyes one last time before departing. 

Fortunately time passed apace with his new companion. Sherlock Holmes had won over the doctor’s trust and heart easily. He could be a petulant child one minute and a thinking machine the next. He was a strange mingling of ruthless and naïve and made the soldier feel rather fiercely protective. He found himself regularly smoothing the feathers Holmes ruffled and taking up cudgels on his behalf should anyone offend in their turn. Soon their common acquaintances expected one where there was the other.

One forenoon, almost at the end of January, John Watson whistled up the stairs of 221B Baker Street. It was unseasonably bright outside, the sun having broken out. A weak sun, but nevertheless a bright oddity for London winters. He had had a delightful visit with one of his elderly patients. A motherly lady fond of gossip, and had found her in good health and spirits. He found the detective in a brooding sulky mood. That in itself was not remarkable, for he frequently was. What was remarkable was that it was evident that he wanted to _tell_ the doctor why. Holmes detested giving coherent answers to queries regarding his dark moods. At first the doctor left him alone and went about sifting the mail. He also stopped whistling and remained silent until he perceived Holmes glaring at him.

His demeanour clearly said, _Why are you not bothered that I am so upset, have you no compassion?_ The good doctor barely suppressed a smile at the childish antics of his friend. He knew there was no point in asking and continued ignoring him. But when Holmes scowled impatiently as the maid brought in tea for the doctor, frightening the poor girl, he had to intervene. He dismissed the maid kindly and turned to his fellow-lodger, “Come now Holmes, was that truly necessary? The girl was merely doing her job, and rather well too. I am about to die of thirst.”

He proceeded to pour his tea and stir in a dollop of cream.

“You are in a rather good mood," was the acerbic response.

“And you aren’t. Care to tell a fellow what’s it about?”

“I see that Miss Morstan was visiting her aunt again.”

“How… I was asking after your reasons not mine.”

“I have been **summoned**.”

“Umhm…”

“ _Summoned!_  He treats me like a dog. Am I a mongrel to be beckoned with a bone?”

Watson would have preferred a name at this point but he knew better than to ask. The detective would take his own time and mention it in his own way. Also, not asking would ensure that he could drink his tea in relative peace. He simply buttered a scone and added it to his dish. He sat back to relish the tea and listen to his friend rant.

“And he sends his most stupid minions to do so. A matter of national importance, indeed," he sneered. “Possibly just some smarmy politician trying to save his career by hiding an ill-advised affair from the public. Next we will be having suspicious wives asking us to trail recalcitrant husbands.”

Watson wasn’t sure how one led to the other but in the interest of a peaceful tea he let the detective rave on. Also, as usual, the use of the plural _we_ had a soothing effect on him.

“I refuse to be a tool for this government. It is nothing but a bunch of headless fools. How dare he summon _me_ to aid _them_?”

Deduction one- it wasn’t the case that had perturbed Holmes but the manner in which he had been asked to look into it. Deduction two- unless he asked, the identity of the culprit of this unpardonable crime would remain elusive. Also, he had finished his cup along with two of the scones and was now fortified enough to plunge in, “And who has had the impertinence to do so?”

Holmes shot him a look that Watson had long since learnt to ignore. “My brother.” He spat out with the greatest scorn.

Watson was so startled at this pronouncement that he gaped and blinked several times before gathering his wits. He had been rather curious about the antecedents of his friend and had always thought that like his own self perhaps he had no close relations alive. Having now discovered a brother, a new mystery opened. He wondered why the brother warranted such disdain and why he hadn't been mentioned so far.

A few well placed questions and sympathetic noises along with Holmes’ strangely garrulous mood got him a few of those answers, which he tried to place in some order within his mind. He discovered that the brother was the elder. That he was far more intelligent than even his younger sibling. That he was a rather lazy man who failed to sufficiently utilise his intelligence. And finally Watson realised that this wasn’t a rant of an estranged sibling but a very fond one. Sherlock Homes admired and loved his brother and he was disgusted that his much more talented sibling was wasting his gifts in being a civil servant, an _accountant_ of sorts, a ‘ _glorified pigeon hole of information_ ’ in some obscure department.

It was a gratifyingly human glimpse of his friend and Watson smiled to himself. Of course he still had no idea either of the brother’s name, or the case itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seeing as the net connection is being so sketchy I decided to post this a bit earlier.  
> So very quickly for those who visit me only for this story- I mentioned to a few of you that I have been offline almost since Monday. Heres why- I live in Chennai. In case you have been following the news you know the rest. I have a whole 1000+ words piece written out giving a blow by blow account of my local experience which wasn't even half as dire as many others faced. But I held off posting that. Let me instead enjoy AO3 and bask in my recently reinstated electrical supply and broadband connectivity :)
> 
> _________  
> Back to the story now-  
> Yes, yes, I picked some stuff straight from ACD.  
> There will be more of that. Did you like it?
> 
> No there will be no Johnlock here and I'm not sure I shall use Mary Morstan's character either. She is a complex one and I do so wish the new BBC season has her joining our two favourite idiots in fighting crime. A kickass lady would be so welcome. (I know I know she comes off as a villain and yes she shot Sherlock but hey I blame Moftiss for that.) Me thinks an assassin fits right in with team Sherlock  
> And no Sherlock will not be stepping out to meet the royals in a bedsheet alone. Thank you.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meeting the brother, and a few more besides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this out till chapter eight and then got to a point where it was too cliched. It seemed to be a regurgitation of all my favourite ACD stories juxtaposed with all that I've read from my favourite authors on AO3.  
> yiiikes!
> 
> So I'm back at the drawing board per se having scrapped chapters five to eight (woe is me) and written back only two more!  
> Aaaargh!  
> How do other authors do this?
> 
> Right, so, I need a few comments from you all **please, pretty please.**  
>  I see the kudos you send (and a HUGE thanks for those) but if I get a teeny tiny comment telling me what you hate and like then I will know if this is making sense to anyone else out there and whats working (or not).  
> C'mon lovely people. Help me out here

A half hour later, they left their rooms and set off in the direction of Whitehall. Holmes dramatic explanation being, “I cannot stand him alone, Watson. I’ll probably be arrested for attempted fratricide.” Though, after what he had inferred earlier, Watson suspected that Holmes was possibly only showing-off. After all, how many could boast a sibling who dealt in _matters of national importance_. He still recalled dragging Mitch Ferris after Sunday school to meet his very much taller, older, cricket-playing sister.

But, it was not to be. They had hardly taken a few steps and Holmes was summoning a cab, when a boy came rushing behind, “Doctor Watson, sir.” As they stopped and turned, he held out a note to the doctor. “It’s Mr. Baker, sir.” He explained breathlessly.

Watson read the note quickly, “I’m afraid it’s serious, Holmes. It is one of my patients and I’ve been afraid of such a relapse. I shall have to hurry.”

“Of course, Watson. I shall see you later.”

They parted ways there and it was more than two hours later that Watson finally made his way back to the rooms. He was smiling. Tired but happy. His patient had rallied, and chances were that he would not only survive but also recover somewhat. He felt a tremendous relief in relaying the hope to the wife and the daughter-in-law. He hoped Holmes was in a good mood after meeting his brother, but then quickly realised that anything would be preferable to the ennui that idleness brought. The last few days had been so bereft of activity for his friend that he was beginning to fear that he would be drawn back to his accursed habit. In fact his agitation earlier had been almost welcome. That thought brought and even wider smile. A fond one this time.

Holmes was absent when he reached home and a note from Holmes awaited him on arrival. “It just arrived a few minutes, Doctor,” said their landlady, Mrs. Hudson. “I take it that your patient is better now. Mr. Baker was it? Told the boy to run and catch up with you.”

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson. My thanks for your quick thinking. Mr. Baker is quite well now and shows all signs of recovery.” Watson knew better than to try and deflect Mrs. Hudson’s queries. She was inquisitive but never indiscreet.

“Should I send up dinner for you at the usual time? Did Mr. Holmes say that he would be dining in?”

“Just a moment Mrs. Hudson.” He read the note in the living room. It was a request for him to meet Holmes at a certain address within an hour.

“I doubt either of us will be dining in Mrs. Hudson. Could you please have some bread and butter sent up? I missed lunch and there is no saying when, if at all, we shall dine.”

After hastily changing and filling himself with bread and butter like a true soldier Watson made his way to the address mentioned in the note. He was almost there when he noticed Mr. Scott, across the road, ducking behind a house. Three men followed him.

*****

Mycroft knew he was cornered and outnumbered. However, he masked his fear and mapped out possible moves. He calmly removed his hat and laid it on a doorstep. Then he removed his gloves and placed them on the hat. He also undid a couple of buttons for easier movement. Then he drew his cane in his right hand like a sword. The tallest thug lunged at him receiving a sharp crack across his face. As he stumbled back with a wail, the other two rushed in. Mycroft twisted away to the other side of the narrow alley, using his foot to trip the one on the left. As the man stumbled he cracked him on the back of the skull, laying him out cold. However, this gave the third thug ample opportunity to grip him by the waist. That would not have been a problem but the tallest had joined the fight again. There was a shout behind them and he was surprised to hear the voice of John Watson. As Mycroft tried to turn, his foot caught in the coat of the fallen man and he tripped. Even as he held out a hand to cushion his fall, the thug holding him let go.

In the ensuing melee, Watson whipped out his pistol and whacked the grip behind the shorter man’s head. As he sunk to the ground, the third thug turned and slammed into Watson. The doctor felt his head hitting the wall behind with a loud thunk. He was dazed for a moment and his assailant got in a punch to his gut. He doubled in pain but suddenly someone pulled the thug back and Watson saw Holmes landing a right hook to the man’s jaw. The man went down and Watson was grateful for Holmes’ time in the ring. He looked towards Mr. Scott to check on him then. The man seemed his usual calm self, picking his cane, hat and gloves and straightening himself.

“Alright doctor?” he asked.

Watson simply nodded trying to regain his breath, he felt a bit dizzy as well. He noticed Mr. Scott limping as he moved towards him; the fall had possibly caused a sprain.

Scott smiled as Holmes remarked to him, “He doesn’t ever stop being a doctor.”

“Never been more glad to see you, Sherlock.”

“It is refreshing to be the rescuer for a change, _brother_.”

Both then looked to the doctor.

“Do you need help, Watson?”

Already dazed by hitting his head on the wall, the doctor merely blinked, and then his eyes rolled as he fainted. Fortunately, Holmes was close enough to prevent his fall.

*****

Watson came back to the sound of hushed angry voices. The drapes were drawn but the fire was enough to make out the two familiar shapes.

“…would be better off in his own rooms.”

“Where, I suppose, _you_ would play nurse till a case called you away or you drifted off into an experiment. I will ensure that he gets the best care here. The house has servants who can stay up all through the night. Would it not increase his discomfort to be jostled about all the way to Baker St.?”

“First, I am capable of nursing quite well. Second, he wouldn’t have to be moved if you had left well alone and allowed him to be taken there in the first place. His being here will lead to suspicions and may put him in danger. What if they believe he is one of yours?”

“My servants are discreet and so is Doctor Hooper. No one shall know and we were not followed.”

“But the thugs will talk. The news of the attack may spread.”

Watson had had enough by then and the raging headache made him irritable as well.

“Holmes…” he croaked.

His friend appeared almost instantly at his side, placing a candle on the bedside table. Bending over solicitously, his face was drawn but he spoke in a quiet warm voice.

“Watson, I would ask how you are feeling but the answer is obvious. Would you like a drink, dear chap?”

“Water.”

Holmes helped him and held a cup to his lips.

“The doctor left some powders for the headache… Would you like to eat something? A soup perhaps?”

“No. I’m sleepy.”

“Sleep then, Watson. Good night.”

“G’night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, they did have a few female doctors back then. Though it is highly doubtful (almost impossible) that a lady doctor would attend to a male patient. This is my humble homage to Doctors Elizabeth Blackwell, Elizabeth Garrett Anderson and the Edinburgh Seven. Let me pretend that our very own Molly was one of them.
> 
> I cannot even imagine the courage and conviction it must have taken to break away from traditions and pursue a career in medicine back then. Loads of kudos to all of them.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Midnight confidences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi All  
> I now see some 25 chapters in all. No promises that it won't grow shorter or longer though given my verbose style.  
> The basic mystery/adventure hasn't changed, inspite of my moaning-myrtle style drama the previous week, I've managed to write it all over again.  
> I do still see this as Johncroft and yeah the first few chapters that are already posted are still in line with whats to come (whew)  
> There are a few minor details that I wish I could change but... I'm telling myself lets not try to be all Tolkien now
> 
> I'm going to start posting twice a week now, cos I must complete this soon while I've built up some steam (and hopefully start on something fresh).
> 
> So as Oliveria said- _"Yeaaa John when he wakes up is going to meet Mr Scott."_
> 
> 22/10/2017: This chapter now comes with its [very own fanart](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12395280). Say a gazillion kudos to [ Georgefittleworth](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Georgefittleworth/pseuds/Georgefittleworth) please.

He next came to perhaps a few hours later. The fire had been banked. Though the room was still warm, the light was barely there. He felt a shadow move to his right and stilled. A soft sigh filled the silence even as lean fingers brushed against his. He had an inkling of the identity of his nocturnal visitor as a thumb stroked his knuckles, and then someone leaned forward and stroked his hair. It had been years since he had felt such a tender touch and he had to work hard to suppress the urge to open his eyes or turn into the touch. The hand in his hair stilled and he wondered if he had given himself away. But then his visitor leaned further and pressed his lips to his temple. Watson forced himself to breathe regularly and keep his eyes closed. He had no doubt that his seeming somnia had emboldened the man and he didn’t want to cause embarrassment. And he didn't want him to stop. The lips lifted, but the man did not straighten, a moment later Watson felt a whisper of breath over his own lips. The man hesitated for a moment, perhaps an eternity, and then he straightened and left the room. Watson heard the soft tread on the carpet and then the soft closing of the door behind him.

A few moments later the door reopened and the doctor opened his eyes, deeming it safe to ‘waken’ now. It was the footman he had seen before- Paver. He was carrying a candlestick and Watson moved to let him know.

Paver quickly put the candle down and asked, “Sir, are you awake?”

Watson merely blinked. His throat was parched.

“Let me, sir.” He was once again raised and helped to some water. His head was gratifyingly calm and the only discomfort was his dry throat and an empty stomach. He drank to his heart’s content and then asked the servant to prop him up. His stomach then hurt him reminding of the punch and he grunted. Resting his back against the pillows he looked around.

“Just a minute, sir.” Paver said as he lit an entire candlestand nearby. “It’s me, sir, Paver. The master said how you may not get your bearings on waking up. Do you feel any better, sir?”

“I do. Thank you.”

“The master has just left, sir. Do you want me to call him? He has been here the whole time.” The man was clearly torn between his orders received and the urge to allow his master some rest.

“No need. What time is it?”

“A quarter to four, sir.”

“Could you… Is there something to eat?”

“Of course sir, the doctor allowed that you were to have some soup. The cook has kept some warm on the hearth. Shall I go and fetch it? Will you be alright?”

Watson murmured an agreement and the servant hurried away quietly. He looked around and took stock. He had barely recalled the fight and his own role in it when the door opened to reveal Mr. Scott. Some more words flickered then. _Sherlock_ … _brother_ …

“Good evening, doctor.” 

He smiled in greeting and said, “I had hoped they wouldn’t alert you. It seems I am imposing on you, _Mr. Scott_?”

Scott seemed to be unsure if he was teasing, but just as he decided to ignore the seeming query and the emphasis on the name, Watson added, “And to your next question, I am feeling far better than expected after fainting in an alley.”

Now that it was clear that he was being playful, Mr. Scott seemed to put on his most pompous façade and asked, “And pray what were you doing gallivanting about, at that hour, in such ignominious quarters, sir?”

“Rescuing a damsel in distress,” came the quick reply. Watson coloured immediately. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...”

“Please, doctor. I was indeed in a dire situation and cannot thank you enough for coming to my rescue.”

“You were injured as well. Your foot…”

“Is quite well, thank you. A minor sprain. A warm soak and a little rest was all that was needed.”

“Won’t you sit down? I hear that you have been up the whole night.”

Scott took the seat but was spared a response with the entry of Paver. He held a tray with a steaming bowl, napkin and a spoon, with a small glass of claret. The last he put down at the table and proceeded to help Watson with the napkin, settling the tray on his lap.

“I am feeling rather spoilt, Paver. Thank you.”

The manservant broke into a smile then. “The cook had the boy stand guard, sir. She wanted to be ready, had we needed hot water or some such thing.”

“Please give them all my sincere thanks.”

“I will sir. Thank you sir. I will be at the door should you need me.” He withdrew then and Watson proceeded to sip delicately. The soup was light but filling. Something he would have approved of for invalids and yet far above the usual pap offered them. He savoured each spoon. As he licked the last of it he became aware of Scott’s gaze fixed upon him. He coloured again.

“Don’t please, Doctor Watson. I hope you will feel at home here. You must let us know if we can do anything to make you comfortable. Please. Unfortunately, I cannot offer any more soup. The Doctor advised limited food.” So saying he removed the tray and brought the claret to the patient.

His proximity recalled the more recent events of the night. The argument, the vigil, the caress, and the kiss. Could he be sure that it had all happened as he recalled now? He couldn’t ask. In part he feared all that it would imply, it was immoral and illegal. But, there had been something that still drew him to the memory of that touch, just as there was something about sitting there together in the middle of the night that he was loathe to forsake. So instead he said, “I assume you cannot talk about the attackers or the reason for the attack.”

“My apologies. You must think me churlish.”

“Never.” He hastened to assure. “Though I… I do wish you would take care. You should not have been alone. I don’t mean to rebuke, surely you know better, but…”

“Accidents can and do happen...” Mycroft started but Watson couldn’t stand it.

“I could protect you.” He blurted. Damn, his tongue was uncharacteristically loose today. He put the glass to his lips again.

“I have already put you in enough danger, my friend. Your courage today and over our last few encounters have indebted me, though this is one debt that lightens my heart instead. I refuse to pull you further into this murky world of shadows. I am glad that it was three against three today. Sherlock has already berated me. If I pull away his chronicler and companion, yes I have heard of the journal and your hopes of one day publishing it, he will never let me hear the end of it. Further, should your well being be ever threatened again due to my actions, then I am sure that the fratricide he keeps threatening me with, will be truly perpetrated.” His smiled playfully.

Watson smiled in turn, “So… you are Holmes’ brother?”

“Yes, Doctor Watson. It seems my precautions were for naught. My name is Mycroft Holmes, and it is a pleasure to finally be introduced properly to my thrice rescuer.”

Watson chuckled, “Proper introduction indeed,” he said surveying the room.

The answering smile eased the tension somewhat. Watson took a moment to look at his host. Mycroft Holmes. Yes, this name suited better. Far better.

“He does care for you.”

“I know.”

“Holmes mentioned that you work for the government.”

“I hold a minor position in Whitehall. A civil servant.”

The conversation seemed once again to falter and perhaps that’s what prompted Watson to say, “I never told my sister, either.”

“A sister?”

“Elder.”

“Is she anything like you?”

“Harriet was a free spirit.” Here Watson drifted into his thoughts and smiled as he recalled Harry. “Could outrun all the boys in the village, climb any tree, and swim! She was perhaps the only girl in the village who could swim. And even though I was a little runt, no one dared bully me for fear she would box their ears. Though, when we grew older I hated that I had to defend her behaviour and tried to distance myself.” Watson grew pensive and silent.

“What happened?”

“Died in childbirth. I was away. But, I suspect a broken heart. I wish she had married a better man!” Then suddenly recalling himself he fidgeted, feigning tiredness. “Forgive me. I must let you get back to bed.”

That seemed to break the mood altogether and Mycroft hastened to ask, “Do you have a headache? Should I fetch the doctor?”

“No. No. I am just sleepy. I have been needlessly rambling.”

“Of course. Good night, Doctor.”

“Good, night, Mr. Holmes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Among other things I have always been miffed with Moftiss that they make it seem as if the Holmeses are always at each others throats or Sherlock is always trying to be one up on Mycroft. I prefer to take a more ACD approach that they may not be very demonstrative but they do love and appreciate each other.  
> Hope this one wasn't too soppy.
> 
> I also know that servants were to be seen and not heard for a rather long time (perhaps till WWI) but I'd like to believe that the anti feudal/royal, anarchic upheavals at home and abroad were bringing some changes. Plus Mycroft, given his profession, needed a very different sort of people to serve him. He would be a very different sort of master.  
> I'm hoping to see more of the loyal smiling Paver.
> 
> Finally, we all know better of course, but in spite of being an army man, it would have been very 'normal' for Watson to find his attraction to another man (or another man's midnight caresses) immoral. It is the late 19th century London after all.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doctor Watson loses Mr. Scott  
> Mycroft meets Captain Watson!

It was after nine when Watson woke up at last.

He woke up startled. He checked around himself. The curtains were still closed leaving the room somewhat dark but there was enough daylight to know his whereabouts. He was feeling rather refreshed and the only remnants of his adventures the previous day were a lingering ache in his gut when he moved and a goose egg behind his head. Then he recalled what had woken him up. Why he had been startled. A dream. And then he had… He pulled off the quilt and groaned. A nightfall. At his age! His eyes closed in consternation.

The vision would not go away. In his dream he had felt a familiar hand caressing him again, and the lips, that had but whispered a touch in the night, had pressed harder in the dream. They had been everywhere. And there had been a face too and a voice. He wouldn’t say the name. Even to himself. It wasn’t right. He ought to be ashamed. He rubbed his face as if to scrub away his thoughts.

But first things first. It was a trick he had needed only once before. He poured some water into a glass at his bedside and tipped some on his lap and his front. Enough to obfuscate the remnants of the dream. Then he poured some more, drank his fill and left the glass and pitcher once again on the sideboard.

Soon Paver entered with a bright good morning. Pulling back the curtains he turned to look at the doctor and smiled good-naturedly. “Still not too steady, sir?”

Paver brought him breakfast and helped him dress and shave. He also informed him that the doctor would be there to see him soon, that the master had had to leave early for an appointment, but he would be back in time for luncheon. As he ate and dressed in near silence, Watson gathered his thoughts.

His first recollection was of the unbidden midnight confidences he had indulged in. He wondered what Mr. Scott would make of it. Surely he did not count it a weakness? Not Scott. It was _Mycroft Holmes_. He found it a bit difficult to marry the two. The imperious, despicable, lazy elder brother his fellow lodger had sketched seemed a far cry from his Mr. Scott. That damned name again! And then there was the whole question of why he had been brought here. Holmes had been right. He could have easily recovered at his rooms. It would have served better to keep their liaison covered as Scott… the man… Mycroft Holmes had said he wanted. But now he had as good as openly announced their acquaintance. All the servants knew of his presence surely now that he had been brought to rest into the house.

But beneath it all, his mind returned again and again to the memory of the soft caress, the kiss and the heartfelt sigh that the darkness had covered. The more he pushed it away, fixing on something else, the sharper the memory became.

Mercifully, his ruminations were broken into by the arrival of the doctor.

Doctor Hooper was a pleasant surprise. Watson was well aware that the universities in the United States and on the Continent had been allowing women to be trained as physicians and were awarding them degrees. So far he had been ambiguous about the issue. Neither strongly advocating for nor against it. However, this changed when he met Doctor Hooper. Where he had expected a battle hardened termagant, the doctor was younger than him, had a warm bedside manner and inspired confidence and respect. If she was a sample of female physicians then he unreservedly voted to have more of them. He wondered whimsically if ever there would be a time when the army permitted women physicians on the field.

She seemed to treat him both as a patient (first and foremost) and as a professional colleague. Her questions were directed to him. She examined his bruises carefully and pronounced him fit to return to normal routine albeit _‘no severe exertion, plenty of rest, and with all the caution that you would have advised your patients’_. She inquired into his reasons for declining the powders and listened with all the attentiveness of a student. All the while, Paver and the doctor’s maid stood by the door.

She had just departed and Watson was contemplating how soon he could return to his lodgings when Mycroft knocked. Watson could recall in all detail the feel of lips on his forehead and pushed it away. He had been rather mixed about their late night conversation; he was embarrassed about his emotional outpourings but the warmth of the genial companionship lingered. He wasn’t sure how to greet the man. He felt as if he was torn between clasping the man to his bosom and fleeing in haste. However, all of his musings and misgivings fell away when he rose to face the masked civil servant from Whitehall. He hadn't yet encountered Mr. Scott in such a setting and it left him flustered. The man seemed no more than a passing acquaintance grateful to him for saving his life. He scrambled to get back his footing even as Mycroft greeted him with polite formality. He tried concentrating on the conversation at hand.

“… hear that the doctor has pronounced you fit to return to normal activities with some caution. I am glad to see you recovered.”

“Yes, thank you. She was confident and I have complete faith in her diagnosis. She is your regular physician I assume.”

He gave a nod at that, “I need people around me that I can trust.” However, Watson had a premonition that it wasn’t all about them. Something else was troubling the man.

“Is anything the matter?”

“Yes, there is. Will you not sit down, sir?” He took a seat across from Watson and started again, “You are acquainted with Inspector Lestrade of the London Metropolitan Police? I have had a note from him this morning. Your flat at Baker Street has been ransacked. Your landlady Mrs. Hudson is safe. Her dwellings weren’t disturbed. Though she is understandably distressed and I have arranged for her to visit her sister.”

“And Holmes?”

“I’m afraid we have been unable to communicate with him. There is no indication to suggest that he was present when the miscreants broke in, but none of his clothes are missing. He returned late after seeing you here last night, but Mrs. Hudson isn’t sure whether he stayed on or left sometime later. His bed has been torn out so we do not know if it had been slept in. Of course he could be out in a disguise. Is there a case perhaps?”

Watson had no knowledge of a new case. Then he recalled that Holmes had meant to contact his brother the previous morning. But before he could ask, Mycroft spoke up. “I am sorry to disturb you so close…”

Watson interrupted hastily, “Please, Mr. Holmes. No matter that, I want to know. He is my closest friend and I am thankful you trusted me enough to tell me. I pray that he had indeed left the rooms voluntarily, but in the meanwhile I will be grateful if you involve me in searching for him in whatever capacity you deem fit. I beg of you to let me help.”

“Doctor…” But Watson continued uninterrupted.

“He claimed that you could outdo him. If you have been to the rooms then you would have seen far more than the police. Wont you tell me what clues you have? I may not be as able but he trusts me to help. Surely that is a recommendation.”

“It is not that I doubt you,” Mycroft finally raised his voice a little. “It is that I fear to draw you into it further.”

“It is my home that has been invaded and my friend who is missing,” said Watson heatedly. “I have already been drawn in.”

For the first time, Mycroft came face to face with the one Watson quality that Sherlock had faced innumerable times and both admired and despaired of— his stubbornness. He read it on his face and in his stance. He would not concede. He was going to do it with or without Mycroft’s help. Mycroft sighed. Trust Sherlock to find a loyal friend in a man as stubborn as himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I know  
> These two keep blowing hot one minute, blowing cold the next. Dont blame me I'm only typing it all out, they have a mind of their own. If it were up to me they would have at least had a (in)decent snog by now.  
> I'm not sure if we will be revisiting Molly again, but if we do, I hope she is more kickass! (hasn't reappeared as of chapter twelve)
> 
> Now, be warned, the fic will seem to wander around for a bit after this with a few more OCs thrown in. But its all going to be tied together.  
> ______________________________________________  
> So the total kudos on all my fics put together reached 200 this week and I'm jubilant!  
> Thank you all!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All is not well

Watson arrived at 221 Baker Street just in time to see their landlady prepared to depart. On seeing him, she rushed forward. “Oh Doctor! It is so good to see you. Mr. Holmes told me you had to stay away at the bedside of a patient. I thank the Lord that you weren’t here last night.” She turned to the maid and said, “Make sure they load it in the right order, Hannah. I’ll be but a minute.”

She ushered him into her rooms and seated him. Then she started asking if he had thought of alternative lodgings while they cleared the rooms above or would he prefer Tim to help him right it. The police hadn't let her see them at first but later she had been upstairs and there didn't seem to be any damage. She said how she had made sure he had the makings of tea whilst she would be away. The boy had been instructed to bring it to him every morning should he be there. He was to let Tim know. She went on about the lawlessness of the current times when even a good woman like her couldn’t keep her home and hearth safe. She acted as if Holmes was simply away from home as usual and the good doctor let her continue in that vein. In a few minutes the room was clear of all save the two of them. Suddenly she pulled out an envelope from the folds of her dress and pushed it into his hand, all the time keeping up her prattle. He put it in the pocket inside. Mrs. Hudson chattered on for another minute and then bade him good bye.

Watson made his way up to the rooms. They were indeed in a disarray. He stood in the middle of the room. His desk by the window had all its drawers pulled out. There were papers strewn all over. The chairs had been overturned. He tried to control his dismay at the destruction wrought and wondered if he could apply his friend’s methods in his stead. He wished Holmes were there to make his deductions. The note. He put his hand inside the pocket but just then the boy knocked. “Doctor Watson, suh. There’s a gennleman 'ere. Wanting to meet Mr. ‘Olmes. Told 'im 'e wasn’ in, but 'e said 'ow it was important.”

“Send him up Tim.”

He turned around to see Mycroft Holmes coming in. Before Watson could say a word, he politely knocked on the already open door and said. “I am sorry, Doctor Watson. Isn’t my brother in?”

Whatever the game was, it had already been played in Mrs. Hudson’s rooms once, this was merely part two. So Watson kept his countenance and responded, “Good afternoon Mr. Holmes. I am afraid he is not in. As you can see the rooms are in a bit of disarray. Would you care to step away and let me know of your purpose so I can take a message for him?”

“It would but take a moment, doctor. I could tell you here itself if you don’t mind.”

Watson nodded, “Of course.”

Mycroft closed the door and looked towards the windows. They were fully curtained. He put a hand to his lips then and motioned the doctor to stay. He then briskly walked the perimeter of the room, checking behind the curtains, into the other rooms up stairs and down, he surveyed each of them calmly but swiftly. Mycroft completed the circuit stepping into the room and simply gazing, taking everything in. In that moment he was so strikingly like Holmes that Watson was startled. A pang of worry for his friend ran through him. If only he could be sure that Holmes was fine.

A moment later Mycroft nodded to Watson and in a very soft voice said, “Meet me at _the club_ tonight, after 11. The address is No. 16, Corinthian Street. Simply knock and say you are to meet _Mr. Scott_. Make sure you are not followed. In the mean time, go through your things and Sherlock’s and see if anything is missing. Though I doubt they found what they were looking for, I’m hoping my brother left a clue. I doubt they will come back, so it is safe for you to sleep here. However, it would be advisable to keep your revolver with you at all times.” He paused till Watson gave a nod of understanding, then turned around and opened the door saying aloud, “And a good day to you too, doctor. Much obliged to you. Do let me know if I can be of any assistance.”

Watson called out to Tim and together they set out straightening the place. As they did so, he kept and eye on possible theft. However, just as Mycroft had predicted he couldn’t discern whether anything had been taken. There was a possibility among Holmes’ things of course but again he couldn’t be sure. He would need more time to sort out his papers but so far nothing seemed amiss.

They were just about done when he heard another set of steps on the stairs. Tim answered the door to the grim face of Inspector Lestrade.

“Doctor Watson.” He tipped his hat.

“Good afternoon, Inspector. We were just finishing here. Please come in.”

“Bad business this, sir. Very sorry. Anything taken?”

“Not that I can see, Inspector. I cannot be fully sure about Holmes’ things though.”

“Him still not back?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“No word? No idea when he’ll be?”

“None. You’ve known him far longer. He tends to disappear at times without word. He’ll be back in his own time.”

“Yes, sir. Fortunate that neither of you were here. Could've been bad. There was more than one of them for sure.”

“I am sure you are right. I for one cannot help wonder if my presence could have deterred them from breaking in or acted as a comfort to Mrs. Hudson.”

“Oh no sir. She was fine. Seems she had taken a sleeping draught and the noise didn’t wake her or the maid, sir. The boy comes only in the morning from what I hear. So those two were safe.”

“Well then. I’m afraid I can’t think what purpose this served.”

“It’s got to be about a case, doctor. What’s he working on?”

“No idea! There hasn’t been a case for a whole week.” The doctor said in all honesty. “I was hoping you would know.”

Lestrade departed with a promise of being in touch and asking Watson to be careful. Telling the boy not to admit anyone else, the doctor locked the door, went up to his room, locked it as well and fetched the envelope from his pocket.

It was meticulously glued. Mrs. Hudson’s doing no doubt. He opened it carefully. There was a note inside. He opened it to see Holmes’ efficient scrawl.

> _My dear Watson,_
> 
> _I am entrusting this to Mrs. Hudson’s keeping in the hopes that you will return home soon._
> 
> _Please be warned that you may be in danger. Stay alert at all times. Disavow all knowledge of my whereabouts or purpose as loudly as possible to everyone and pretend that nothing is amiss._
> 
> _The attack on our lodgings is a result of my fumbling in a case my brother entrusted to me. I cannot reach him at the moment for fear that the message will be intercepted. I hope that his enemies have not yet discovered your association with him. Under no circumstances should you seek him out. I am sure he will get in touch with you. In which case, please tell him this- _
> 
> _Our quarry has escaped with the documents. The house was attacked with fire. I am sure that the client has been duping us and planned an attack on both the quarry as well as Mycroft. It is equally clear that this is not the first attack on the quarry’s person or their belongings, for both the response to the fire and the escape were well planned. We have not been told the whole truth regarding the documents or the manner in which they were lost._
> 
> _I am following the trail of the quarry and will communicate with either of you whenever it is safe to do so._
> 
> _Destroy this letter immediately._
> 
> _Yours &c._
> 
> _Sherlock Holmes_
> 
> _PS: Do not try to find me. I am safe._
> 
> _-SH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas everyone!
> 
> Sorry it had to be this chapter today. 
> 
> The line from Tim should be read with all the apostrophes replaced by an aitch (h). My room mate in college used to do funny voices all the time and her London boy from the 'forelock tugging times' was my favourite. 
> 
> Like I said theres going to be a bit of plot building in the next few which means that there may not be so many kickass moments or much romance. But yes, I will ensure that these two do happen eventually :)
> 
> A very special mention to Lee Jackson's site http://www.victorianlondon.org/index-2012.htm. It is a wonderful collection of information for life in Victorian London. I especially use it when I'm unsure whether my assumptions about life back then are correct.
> 
> Ta then! Until next time.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please and thank you Mr. Holmes

Given his adventure the previous night Watson decided to take a nap prior to leaving home. There was only a minor discomfort from his injuries, but if he needed to be away till late then he would need to recover all his strength and faculties.

That evening the doctor decided that it would be better if he didn’t go to _the club_ from Baker St. but first wandered about the town a little. He sent a note and met up with Stamford again at the same restaurant. They dined as leisurely as is possible when two bachelors have nothing better to do, but still, time seemed to drag. To Stamford’s query, he made sure that he mentioned nonchalantly that he had no idea where Holmes was.

The wait for the clock to strike a certain hour can be interminable. It can even test the patience of a soldier. By the time they had dessert, the good doctor was running out of all conversation. Thankfully, a common friend from university joined them. They talked for another half hour. At the end of that Watson was about to make his excuses, when the university friend suggested visiting a new drinking establishment that was rumoured to serve smuggled wines. It was on the corner of Dart St. and Corinthian St. It was god sent!

The three piled into a cab and soon had a drink in their hands, which Watson was sure, was anything but French. Nevertheless, he bided his time and then, pretending tiredness, slipped away while urging his friends to continue. It was quarter past by the time he knocked on No. 16. The place seemed no different than it had the first time. He was escorted to the end of the hall, past the screened enclave, down a well-lit corridor and in front of a nondescript door. Then the attendant left. He knocked on the door. Mycroft himself opened it and ushered him in, quickly closing the door behind.

“You took care not to be followed?”

Watson quickly recapped his evening. As he narrated his journey from Baker St. to the club, he noticed Mycroft’s eyes hinting admiration and approval. It must be his imagination. The slight smile, which always left him guessing, played on those lips. His narrative faltered. He cleared his throat and for th first time looked around to cover his nerves. It was a boudoir!

The room wasn’t large but the decor made it feel spacious. Its purpose would be clear to the dimmest of minds. His breathing hitched as he took in the large bed at the centre; close enough to the fireplace to stay warm without the need of sheets or blankets. Indeed, he could feel it was rather warm. Perhaps he’d had a few too many drinks. The only other furniture was a large couch sufficient for a man of his size to sleep in comfortably. There was a desk at the far side with a chair. The only light, save from the fire, was from a large candlestand placed near the couch. The effect was rather seductive. He was seated on the couch now and his host was still standing by the door. His gaze fixed on the doctor’s face.

Watson scrambled for coherence. “I have had some news from Holmes.”

“Sherlock wrote to you?”

Watson nodded and began again, “He left a note for me with Mrs. Hudson. He left me some instructions and a message for you. She made sure that no one knew he had been there, or that he had left a note. She is very discreet and intelligent.”

Mycroft nodded in agreement and signed for him to continue.

“He said that _the quarry_ has escaped with _the documents_. It seems that some house was attacked with fire. He relayed his suspicions that _your client_ has been duping the both of you and that it was _he_ who had planned the attacks on the quarry as well as on you. He also said that he is certain that this has not been the first attack on the quarry’s person or their belongings. He derived the conclusions from how well planned their response to the fire and the escape were. He further suspects that you have not been told the whole truth regarding the documents or the manner in which they were lost.

“He added that even now he is following the trail of the documents and will communicate with either you or me whenever he deems it safe. And has requested that I not try to find him.”

He added the last with a rueful shake of his head, recalling their conversation just that morning. He then resolved and pleaded with his host, “I understand that you have no reason to trust me Mr. Holmes. But pray, do know that I consider your brother to be my closest friend. Even someone not as gifted as he, can guess that his current undertaking was at your behest. Also, that it is something that you consider of national importance. He had asked me to accompany him to your meeting at Whitehall. I am sure that he would have insisted that I hear you lay out the case. When I encountered you, in the alley that night, I was on my way to meet him nearby. So I am doubly sure that he intended for me to be of some assistance in his investigation. It cannot be mere coincidence.

“He has already bid me be careful as he suspects that our association is not yet known to your foes. I will bide by his requests to stay alert as well as to ensure that his whereabouts and intentions are not discovered. However, I am a man of action. Isn’t there some way that you can engage me in the resolution of this case?”

Those earnest entreaties, that open countenance, they would have moved the most hardened deities and Mycroft Holmes was but a man.

“You are a hard man to deny, Doctor Watson. I have said it before and I repeat. There is no deficit of trust towards you. Even before we met, I knew of you and had observed you.”

Watson boggled, “Me? Why?”

“An army doctor who has been stationed both in India and Afghanistan, one who had received a severe wound while on duty, one who hasn’t received any medal for his service but has earned the loyalty of all his subordinates both English and native, yes, even of the _sepoys_ , who can learn to speak a language within months, is a rare specimen. Of the very small numbers of such men, one of them suffers a serious bout of tropical fever that brings him back to the shores of England and then, by some strange quirk of circumstances, he takes up residence not far from my own door step.

“To say that suspicion and scepticism are bywords in my world is no exaggeration. By the time of our second meeting, your service record and conduct had been vetted, when you decided to share lodgings with Sherlock, your entire life was thoroughly investigated.”

Watson was surprised and angered by these revelations and the implications. Hidden within it all, was a minor niggling hurt that this man hadn’t deemed him worthy of trust until he had evidence gathered professionally. It was irrational and he would never voice it but the anger and hurt lingered. He tried to detach his emotions from the task at hand. He needed to concentrate only on what needed to be done and how to do it. He who has dug through piles of cadavers, and human entrails, looking for life; has amputated the limbs of the very people who he shared meals with; has shot his horse when it broke its leg; has spent the last eleven months calmly facing mornings after waking up drenched in sweat from nightmares. He can do this. So he regiments his features and listens.

The voice was cool and impersonal as it continued, “I have no wish to discomfit you. I merely mention it to ease your concerns that I do not trust you. In the present circumstances and given your own wishes, I have to agree that you would make the best ally. Your discretion during our earlier meetings, your loyalty to the country and to my brother coupled with the courage and intelligence you have shown in the last few days make you a formidable tool for my cause.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” came the dry response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all have a great new year ahead  
> I'm planning to skip posting anything this Friday  
> sorry about that  
> Next Wednesday I'll get back on schedule  
> Till then!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft explains

“Like I said Doctor. You are a hard man to deny. I do need to keep our association hidden for as long as is possible. However, we can appear as acquaintances via my brother should the need arise. There are a few avenues that I need to explore and I would like your help in those. I realise that your professional commitments need your attention as well. I request that you do not take any new patients for the foreseeable future. You will be compensated for it.”

Watson bristled but held his tongue. He reminded himself that it was no longer _his_ Mr. Scott that he dealt with, but Mycroft Holmes, _a civil servant_ with a _minor position_ in Whitehall. He needed to stay involved since he had become rather used to being part of Holmes’ cases both as an associate and for protecting the heedless man. This time though he felt that there was every possibility of some serious harm befalling him. There had been numerous instances when Holmes had been injured or attacked during his investigations but not once had the threat ever entered their lodgings. This latest foe had dared to breach that bastion as well. John Watson was both concerned and furious. So he kept his anger in check and let the condescending man in front of him do all the talking.

“Let me then bring you up on the facts of the case. I am acting on behalf of a well-known political figure from an allied nation. This personage… let me call him the Duke for this telling. The Duke had become entangled with an adventuress." Watson could not help a small smile to himself that part of Holmes’ prediction of the case had indeed been true. Mycroft carried on, "The lady was rather popular at that time. There are some compromising letters that he had written to her and a photograph of the two of them that she stole from his desk. He is about to be married to a scion of another powerful family and is afraid that the affair will resurface. The woman in question is reputed to be vengeful enough to do everything to prevent her ex-lover marrying someone else. She will even brave a scandal by revealing their liaison.”

“The matter is politically significant, as the proposed marriage will dramatically change alliances in Europe. The betrothal is to be made public in two weeks and hence the urgency. The persons involved are both residing in London at present. Or rather the Duke is, since Sherlock’s report tells us that the lady has departed. She has refused all attempts at contacting her or negotiating with her by the Duke’s agents. A few attempts to steal them back have failed. They haven’t even been able to trace the current location.

“I sent two of my subordinates to track the lady’s movements and to understand how best to approach the issue. It was clear that a better mind would be required for the task and also that my office could not be seen to be directly involved in the retrieval. That is why I gave it over to Sherlock. I gave him the current address of the lady in question. Money was not an issue; he was given carte blanche. He was to report directly to _me_ and only me. An hour after my brother left my office, the Duke came in personally and accused me of plotting against him. He claimed that I was already in possession of the incriminating items and was waiting for a chance to ruin him. There was no reasoning with him. His last words to me were threats of dire consequences against my person as well as any who dared thwart him.

“I would have left him to his own devices but the scandal would indeed hurt Britain’s interests on the continent. The political climate is delicate. There have been divisive forces trying to subvert the monarchy here and abroad. This would play into their hands. This match has been promoted by Her Majesty. Though officially undeclared, it isn’t a secret. At this stage, a withdrawal by either party would be seen as a direct snub to Britain.”

Here Mycroft took a deep breath. “You know what happened next, I was attacked and you and Sherlock came to my rescue. Whether it was that incident that brought the two of you to their attention, or perhaps Sherlock’s presence earlier in my office, or did they already have you both targeted, is not clear. I cannot be sure. But the ransacking of your rooms is a sure sign that Sherlock or the both of you are now targets as well. That along with the information given by Sherlock in his note to you the game seems far deeper.

“Be that as it may, I still cannot be seen associating too closely with you. To this end, you will have an indirect channel to me. My cousin is in town. Her physician is retiring rather conveniently. I shall recommend you to her. We will make it seem as if I was promoting your career, an act of benevolence for saving my life. She will act as a conduit. Barring unforeseen circumstances, please be prepared to meet her tomorrow at noon. I will send you the address and a letter of introduction by then. Do you have any questions, doctor?”

“Yes, please. How much does your cousin know? What is the nature of her involvement?”

“My cousin is the Countess Sherringford. I see that you are familiar with the name. Yes, the very same. She knows about my work and has helped in the past. I have not told her about the latest task yet, but given her intelligence, and the circles that she moves in, I would be very much surprised if she had no inkling. You may speak to her freely. Anything else?”

Countess Sherringford, Watson thought, the doyenne of the political circles. In spite of her youth, her protégés lined both the houses of Parliament – _on either side_. “No, Mr. Holmes, that will be all. I will ensure that I meet the Countess tomorrow as directed. However, I spy a desk in the corner beyond. If you would be kind enough to pen the details right away, it will save me a trip back home between my visits to Harley St. and Piccadilly.”

“As you wish.” The older Holmes picked up the candle stand and placed it at the desk. He wrote quickly, seemingly without making any mistakes. There was no scratching and over writing. As he caught himself observing the steady hand closely, Watson wondered if the man would always hold him in fascination. Even when he was angered and hurt?

Bereft of the candle stand, his side of the room was darkened and he was again reminded of the inherent purpose of the site of their meeting. The memories of that first visit came flooding in unbidden. It suddenly dawned on him that it was hopeless indeed. He acknowledged to himself that he was terribly infatuated and there didn’t seem to be any way of scuppering the feeling. As he had told the object of his fascination – he had been in the army. He knew that even the fear of the law and the church was not enough many times. Nevertheless, he reminded himself that the distance between an ex-soldier and the cousin of a Countess was too large. And, no matter what his fevered imagination had led him to believe, the man would never be interested. He rose as Mycroft approached with an envelope and a visiting card.

“The letter of introduction, the address is on it. The butler will recognise my card.”

Watson carefully pocketed both the items. “If that will be all, Mr. Holmes.”

“Yes, Doctor Watson.”

Watson gave a quick nod and made to turn away when Mycroft held out a hand as if to stop him, leaning closer, “You will be careful, won't you?”

This time he looked fully into his host’s face, “Of course.”

“I mean... Good luck, Doctor.” The man held out his hand, palm up.

Watson cursed the setting of their meeting. He wished he could drag the man closer to the candles and read every inch, every nuance of that face. Half hidden in shadows as it was, there was no reading anything on that face, no matter how he peered. He took his hand and replied, “And to you, Mr. Holmes. Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we are back!  
> A very happy new year everyone. I hope things have started out very well for all of you.
> 
> Mine started out with a wedding in the family! And, as weddings for us are always HUGE, there were a zillion people there which is why last Friday had to be a no show.
> 
> In other news, I finally resolved what I call the "villain crisis" of this fic so it will stay on schedule. Whew!  
> Still no show on the smut though :'(  
> (perhaps i need to make a new year resolution to try and write some. Just some PWP. hmmmm)  
> And now once again my periodic appeal of - please tell me if I've left any errors (grammatical, typos, period-related, fudged storyline, etc.) With no beta I rely on you nice people to help me out on that front.  
> Till Friday then.  
> Ta and take care


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The countess and her cousin

Fortunately for Doctor Watson, the next morning at Harley Street was not too heavy. He had had trouble sleeping and had been plagued by nightmares. Mycroft had informed him that a message had been sent to his senior partner regarding his ‘ill-health’ and the good man had been rather accommodating about it. Watson swallowed down his guilt about it and set to meet his appointments. He did, however, inform his partner of the good fortune that he may have added an illustrious name to their list of patients, if the initial appointment went well. All of which of course ensured that he was well in time for his appointment with the Countess.

The mansion was as ostentatious as Watson had imagined. He seemed to need no introduction and in fact seemed to have been expected; nevertheless he put both his card and Mycroft’s on the salver. The butler announced “Doctor Watson” in tones that would have done the Palace proud.

He was ushered into a well-appointed room. The rich tones of the draperies and upholstery contrasted with the pale wood used abundantly. And yet, for all its rich decorations it exuded a warm welcome. Watson mused that it reflected its owner rather well. The smile on the countess’ face was warm enough to dissipate any misgivings the plainly dressed visitor had, given her fashionable attire and the room's setting.

To say she was beautiful would terribly understate it. She was striking, with dark hair, sharp but pleasant features and a regal poise. The dark blue of her very fashionable dress set off her elegant figure, and it was clear from her smile that she knew it.

Even as he stepped further into the room he became aware of the presence of Mycroft Holmes. Recalling their late night meeting he steeled himself and decided to maintain a distance. _This was not his Mr. Scott_ , he reminded himself again. This was Mycroft Holmes and indeed the man’s first few words confirmed that his decision was right.

“Doctor Watson,” he inclined his head in greeting. Then he turned to the countess, “Anthea, my dear, allow me to introduce my rescuer and _Sherlock’s associate_ Doctor Watson. Doctor, my cousin, Lady Sherringford.”

The doctor courteously bowed over the offered hand.

“Doctor. It is a pleasure to meet you. How gracious of you to make time.”

“Countess.” He greeted straightening. Their hostess gestured for him to take a seat to her right.

“You must tell me about your practice Doctor Watson. But give me a moment while I ring for tea.” She rang the bell and then turned back to him, “La! Doctor Watson, you have been in two professions that I most admire— a soldier and a physician. Indeed I have been waiting to make your acquaintance.”

They proceeded to hold an involved conversation on the two professions, in specific his experiences in them. The countess had numerous questions regarding the places Watson had seen, places he had served in, conditions and sentiment in the barracks, the opinions of the natives, whether he foresaw another uprising similar to the Mutiny of ’57, were the new practices advocated by Dr. Lister being practised on the front, had he picked up any local remedies, was it true that people mixed superstition and medicine in the East, and, in between it all, tea was served.

Though interesting, Watson found the thread of conversation rather strange. He wanted to understand the countess' family, if there would be any long suffering patients and assess whether he would be able to do anything for them. After all he was trained as a surgeon, not a family physician. He also wanted to understand how he would help in closing the case Holmes was involved in so his friend could return home. But neither the elder Holmes nor the countess seemed inclined to either. He was at a loss on ideas to steer the conversation till he registered the countess’ assessing gaze. He was being measured! He had no doubts that if he were found wanting on any account the lady would have no compunction in denying him both a patient and a role in the investigation. The moment it dawned on him he saw a change in her demeanour. Nothing pronounced but rather a shift the way he was used to seeing only in Holmes so far. The lady knew that he knew. She rang again for the butler and instructed that she was not home to anyone for the next hour and that they were not to be disturbed on any account. The butler closed the door to the parlour behind him.

She drew herself up and looked at Watson squarely, it was a rather, he couldn’t think of any other expression— a rather military look, he thought. Not a hint of feminine softness, no coyness. Rather direct.

“Now, Doctor Watson, you have questions.”

“Yes, my lady. However, I am not sure whether I should ask about the potential patients first or…”

“We will begin with the case of the missing letters first. This will allow my cousin to proceed to his office while we discuss your engagement with us. Have you heard of the King of Bohemia and his impending nuptials?”

“Anthea…” Mycroft warned.

The Countess let out an exasperated groan and said, “You are two of a kind! You and Sherlock. It’s like getting blood out of a stone. Need to know basis, indeed! You have decided to trust the Doctor, must you persist in this melodrama of cloak and dagger?”

“I know too well the cost of letting something accidentally slip and I hate spilling someone else’s secrets,” he admonished in a calm voice.

The countess rolled her eyes and looked to Watson as if to say, _see what I have to contend with?_   Watson was hard put to keep a smile off his face. “I had guessed as much, my lady.”

She gave a secret smile, which the news sheets loved to call her _signature_ look, “You may as well know the identity of the other party then.” It was now Mycroft’s turn to groan as the countess continued. “Miss Irene Adler, is a well known actress, now retired from stage. She was the darling of the stage and the crowds. Like any other successful lady of that profession she had many admirers and the King was among them. He was the crown prince then. Now cousin, I know that it would cause a scandal for those letters and photograph to be published, but would that really cause the betrothal to be broken?”

“Of course- you know how puritanical the Scandinavian royals are. Plus the match has been promoted by England and any scandal would reflect on us as well. And the crown detests such shenanigans, so it would affect the King’s diplomatic relations with England as well.”

“Pshah, the _crown_ considers everything a shenanigan at the moment. _She_ may have promoted the match but she hardly dictates foreign policy. _Your_ office does. Leave that for a moment and tell me, barring the scandal that an exposure on the eve of his betrothal might bring, why would the King be bothered about a few letters and a photograph?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“Is it? Is that enough to physically attack a woman, Mycroft?”

“Attack?”

“Indeed. Since the day she left for Paris, the King and his cohorts have made multiple attempts to retrieve the letters and photograph. The first one, even before she reached Paris. At least two could have been fatal for members of her household and her. One of them left a bodyguard severely injured. Burglars have ransacked her house, her luggage has been diverted when she travelled to London, and twice she has been waylaid. The attempt at arson the day before was just one in the series.”

Mycroft stayed silent.

“What does that say about the King? No doubt, it has made the lady in question skittish, and no wonder any overtures from the King have been declined.”

Watson was surprised at the heat in her voice. She seemed almost vehement in defence of the woman.

Watson was intrigued by the choice of words. It seemed as if the Countess admired the woman in question. A scandalous adventuress? And yet, he knew of the countess enough to know that she had a stellar reputation in society and the public admired her moral rectitude and charitable works. Surely she would not side with a blackmailer? Then he noticed Mycroft’s reaction to her comments _._ He seemed to be smiling at his cousin. A wordless exchange that said- _message received_.

“Now Doctor Watson, I understand that I am to be a conduit between you and my cousins. I admit I am relieved that Sherlock thought to leave you a message. He can be rather rash and unthinking. It must be your good influence that he is mending his ways. Please feel free to communicate with me at any time should the need arise. I shall do the same. Mycroft, my dear, I shall be seeing you twice this week, at Lady H’s and then at the luncheon with Sally. Let me know what plans you have made in assisting Sherlock and what Doctor Watson needs to do.”

Seeing that he was being summarily dismissed, Mycroft rose from his seat. “Thank you, cousin. I shall see you soon.” Turning to the doctor he gave a quick nod, “Doctor Watson, good day.” He then walked out of the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay.
> 
> Yes, yes, yes. I used Anthea as the cousin. Hey we need a few kick-ass women don't we? I'm hoping this will be the last of wandering around adding new characters, but there may be a bit more of that in the next chapter.  
> And yes, its a bit of ACD's Scandal in Bohemia as was obvious from the last chapter.  
> Thanks to all of you who kudos, comment, bookmark, subscribe. Its so encouraging.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I do need a physician.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention of kidnapping and PTSD. Please exercise caution while reading.

As Mycroft left and the butler closed the door firmly, once again the countess turned to Watson and said, “Now, sir, I do need a physician as well. Please consider this as the beginning of your engagement as my personal and family physician. However, mostly this is about my friend and companion, Mrs. Catherine Maynard. Before you meet her you will need to understand the circumstances that befell her. When my husband passed away I had no need to form another alliance. The marriage contract left me rather well off and my father-in-law was more than willing to involve me in the dealings of the estate as well as business. I was already blessed with two children and their care kept me occupied as well. So I hired a companion. Mrs. Maynard came highly recommended and we had had a slight acquaintance before. She is a widow herself, though childless. We are almost the same age. The late Mr. Maynard was a soldier and had some investments which meant that Catherine was left comfortably well off and wasn’t entirely dependent on me. We soon became good friends and she is now as dear to me as a sister.

“About an year back, fourteen months precisely, she was kidnapped. I believe the attack was meant for me, and Mycroft agrees. I had been helping Mycroft in a delicate matter and we have reason to believe that my involvement was, if not discovered, then surely suspected. Or perhaps they meant to use me as a leverage against him. It took us nearly three days to find her. There was no sign that she had been physically abused in any manner. However, we do believe she was starved and not allowed any sleep. However, since that time she has not been the same. She barely speaks, refuses to have any company save a very small circle including my children, her maid, and me. But even those she cannot bear to touch. And she has terrible nightmares whence from she wakes up screaming. There are days when she refuses to sleep for fear she will have nightmares and finally collapses out of sheer fatigue. She has never told any of us what those nightmares are.

“The contrast between her prior ways and now couldn’t be more pronounced. She had always been a vivacious, confident and loving person. I have tried the best physicians from Europe, but to no avail. Her reluctance to meet strangers makes it even more difficult. So far we have managed to keep her condition and its reason from others. Most people think that she has had an accident that led to some disfigurement and hence her reticence in being seen in public.

“Mycroft recommended you to us and I agree that having been in battle fields you know what occurs when men go through traumatic experiences. I have heard that many soldiers display similar symptoms. Sometimes, even when they are not grievously harmed. Second, having suffered yourself, you will have greater empathy with your patient. Not many doctors have faced life-threatening situations. Finally, my cousins have both vouched for your discretion. I would like you to meet her now.

“Do you have any questions before I take you to meet Catherine?”

Given that the countess had been so direct, the good doctor felt the need to reciprocate, “Only the one, my lady. Have you informed Mrs. Maynard that I will be attending to her? As per my experience, it is imperative that she feel that she has a choice in the matter and that she is in control of the meeting.”

“I agree, Doctor Watson. She has been informed of your visit. She displayed no emotion regarding it, so I am afraid I have no way of knowing whether she is truly fine with this.”

“I understand. Thank you, my lady. A caution as well, if you please— Do not expect any results soon. I shall be trying to simply get her used to my presence before I start treating her. This may take a very long time and you will have to be patient. As you mentioned, I have experienced it in war, hence, I cannot, in good conscience, promise that she will ever be fully 'cured'.”

The calm on the countess’ face broke for the first time, “It isn’t easy, sir. If only you had seen how she used to be. Or if you heard her screams at night.” She halted and took a deep breath. Then she gathered herself once more. “I promise to be patient.”

The countess led him to another wing of the house. A large door separated it from the rest of the house and the door seemed a fairly new addition in comparison. The corridors there were deserted, not a servant was in sight till they reached a sunny parlour. The countess gestured for him to remain by the door. A maid sat near it, mending and she hastily got up and curtsied to the lady of the house. A lady with a melancholy air sat near a desk looking out of the window. The countess knocked and approached her, merrily humming a tune and called out in her brightest tones, “Catherine, my dear, do you have a minute to spare? Do you recall the friend I mentioned at breakfast? Like I said, he is a war hero and I would love for you to meet him. Shall I show him in?”

Watson would have been embarrassed at that introduction, but he was intently observing the lady in question and the way her one visible hand clinched tight. In fact her whole body seemed to cringe. He was glad that the countess had already thought and planned ahead to pave his way. The countess was at the desk now and murmuring something to her friend, smiling. The lady shook her head in negative. The countess continued to speak, still smiling, as if nothing was amiss. Then finally, her companion stood and turned. Slowly she pulled out her chair at the desk, turned it over and sat down again. It was the point furthest from the door and him. Watson slowly released his breath. The countess smiled at him and called out, “Doctor Watson, wont you come in, please?” She gestured to a comfortable chair furthest away from the desk and seated herself on a couch between the two.

Watson walked slowly to the chair and waited.

“Doctor Watson, my friend and companion, Mrs. Maynard. Catherine, my dear, this is _the_ Doctor Watson who shares lodgings with Sherlock, but that’s not the only sign of his bravery,” she added impishly with a laugh, “till about an year ago he served in India with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and then Afghanistan with the 66th (Berkshire) Regiment of Foot. He was a captain. You know how I admire our soldiers.”

Once again Watson admired the countess’ method of introducing him to her friend. To any third person it would merely seem that she had met someone interesting and could not help introducing him to her closest friend. He hoped it would have the desired effect.

He bowed towards Mrs. Maynard and said in a quiet voice, “It is a pleasure to meet you madam, her ladyship is too kind.” He then seated himself.

Finally his patient looked towards him and said, “Good afternoon, sir.” She then once again looked away, her jaw clenched tight.

The countess chattered away and Watson merely made appropriate responses. He was fixed on observing his patient without staring at her or making her in any way more uncomfortable. Finally, after a few more minutes, he excused himself. He did not want to put her under too much strain. He subtly gestured for the countess to stay while the footman escorted him out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this wasnt too distressing. I'm updating the tags. There will be further mentions of PTSD and its symptoms along the storyline. I hope it does not distress anyone too much. It was necessary for the plot.  
> ____________________  
> Catherine Broshears Maynard is a well known Seattle pioneer and for some reason this character simply named itself! Truly she did. It took me a while to understand why, though. I had read of the original a few days prior to writing this chapter. I do believe she was a true feminist in my sense of the term. And so the name stuck. No disrespect is meant to the original because my character too is a nice and courageous person.  
> ____________________
> 
> Thanks so much to all those who comment and kudos. Some have bookmarked and subscribed too! 
> 
> Once again I urge my nice readers to let me know if anything rankles or appeals. I truly like receiving your comments but most of you have chosen to praise not criticise. I am pleased and humbled but please dont forget to send con-crit or even nudges of prompts (after all this whole thing wouldnt exist without that nudge)  
> Now that I have started posting my other fic (erratically) I need to keep this steady and get it to completion. Which I promise again I will. I am concerned that my plot is a bit cliche and convoluted but the muse refuses to budge! So yeah thats how it will be. Good luck to my poor readers.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To know more of the jobs at hand, Capt. Dr. Watson dives in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With reference to the previous chapter and this one- PTSD, or the more common name then shell-shock, was not really well studied or even acknowledged among common folk in the nineteenth century. In Victorian times they would have been seen as a sign of weakness relegated to the realms of children or the so called weaker sex. ‘Real men’ never suffered such things. Hysteria was a common name given to many such cases (and many other disorders). Of course that would have led to further suffering for the victims. As correctly pointed out by KittKat, the countess is rather forward looking in understanding the disease and its possible cause as well as in approaching a veteran army doctor for help. While she is an entirely fictitious character, I do believe that on the shoulders of such was medical progress made.  
> The article on the following link has a brief history of the various terms it has been called (in English speaking countries)- http://io9.gizmodo.com/5898560/from-irritable-heart-to-shellshock-how-post-traumatic-stress-became-a-disease  
> If you know more on any of these points do let me know please. I would really like to know better. Thanks in advance.

On his way back to the rooms Doctor Watson could not help wondering if he had not taken on more than he was capable. He had been trained as a surgeon and did not know much about treating nervous disorders. In spite of the countess’ confidence in him and his experiences he felt rather at sea. Most people in the army believed that nervous disorders were a sign of weakness and held anyone suffering them in disdain. He had always sympathised with all those boys who had been sent to war merely as canon fodder. Many of them were still smooth cheeked and it was heart breaking to see some crying out in their sleep or reduced to utter paralysis after a battle. After the bullet found him, he had suffered nightmares. He woke up with ears ringing with the noise of battle and death. He had never mentioned them to anyone. He determined then that he would study the malaise as much as possible to treat his patient right.

The next morning Doctor Watson followed his routine as usual. Tim brought him the hot water in the morning followed by his tea. En route to his first _visit_ he dropped into an ABC for eggs and hot chocolate. The morning passed quickly and he ducked into another ABC for his lunch. He wondered if by the time Mrs. Hudson returned he would know the insides of all London coffee houses.

He wasn’t too surprised to see Dr. Hooper at a table alone. After all one doesn’t become a lady physician by following tradition. What did surprise him was that she gave him a wide smile and invited him to join her at the table. Their talk was mostly professional and he was immensely flattered and impressed when she asked specific questions about treating and dressing injuries in view of his earlier experience. Once again he realised that she was a very good doctor and a remarkable lady. Strangely, or perhaps not so strangely given she was in Mycroft’s employ, she made no mention of his injuries. Watson wondered how this set kept things straight among themselves. It must be exhausting.

When they neared the end of their dinner, he extravagantly ordered tea for the two of them. Her beaming smile told him that she appreciated the gesture. While waiting for their brew a sudden thought struck him. He asked to consult her as a colleague and fellow medical student. Without divulging the identity or betraying confidences he laid out the case of Mrs. Maynard before her. He detailed how such things were seen in some soldiers as well, anonymously adding his own experience and the ensuing nightmares. He laid down his primary concern before her— given the gender of the patient and the nature of ailment he wasn’t sure how he could develop her trust. For it was this that had most helped him when soothing his fellow soldiers.

Doctor Hooper agreed with him that this wasn’t a case of developing vapours or hysteria. She said that she had seen at least once such case of a person involved in a terrible carriage mishap. The gentleman was said to have been rather brave during the incident and had help pull at least two fellow travellers from the carnage. But soon thereafter, he refused to step into one and till date suffered extreme anxiety in their proximity. She pondered over it for a few minutes and suggested the Royal Medical Library. She mentioned a few doctors from Vienna who had studied and documented such cases. Watson noted it all down and thanked her. He then asked if he should hail a cab for her, saw her off, and turned towards the Library. He soon found some papers that seemed to describe similar symptoms spent some time reading them and then late that afternoon decided to return to his rooms.

On reaching his rooms there was a note from the countess requesting his presence again that afternoon. He hoped it wasn’t too late to do so and decided to take a chance to visit his patient should the countess be at home.

Fortunately she was. Her salon was rather full when he was announced. He apologised for his tardiness, “I’m afraid I received your note only after I returned to the rooms, my lady.”

“There is no need for an apology, Doctor Watson. I realise that a successful physician has more than one patient to attend to. Let us step away for a minute I’d like to discuss the progress so far.” She then turned to the company and smiled, “Ladies and gentlemen please excuse me for a moment.”

She led the way to an adjoining parlour and they were soon seated. “I hope I did not inconvenience you, Doctor.”

“You shame me, my lady. I had wished to call tomorrow morning and was about send a request. Your note merely pre-empts my wishes.”

“You have found something then?”

“Nothing concrete, my lady. As I said earlier this will take some time. I am not a specialist, unfortunately. However, I have had some help and there are the beginnings of a plan that I hope to have your permission for.”

“Of course.”

“I think it would be best if Mrs. Maynard were to be comfortable in my presence. Unless she feels able to stop seeing me as a threat there is not much I shall be able to do. To this end, I would like to spend about half an hour daily in the same room as Mrs. Maynard. Preferably at the same time each day. At the beginning I shall not try to initiate any conversation. I will merely sit in the same room and perhaps read or some such thing. Once she is used to having me around I hope she will grow comfortable enough to have me speak to her.

“My ultimate aim is to win her trust at least to the extent that should I speak with her she should listen and hopefully respond. If she ever speaks to me herself I shall count it as a victory. As I understand what ails her I should be able to find ways to soothe her fears. For these are fears indeed that have taken root in her heart. In all this of course I shall need your help. It is very likely that she will confide in you instead. You will need to relay to me all such confidences and let me judge whether they are pertinent to her ailment. I know I ask a lot. But I feel we have a good chance of seeing her smile again. Will you permit me to proceed my lady?”

“I told you that I have every confidence in you, sir. You may proceed. When would you be able to visit each day? Given that she rarely sleeps a full night she sometimes naps during the day. Usually after lunch. They are rather short naps but I wouldn’t want to disturb those. Perhaps and hour after lunch?”

“That suits me perfectly, my lady. I shall start tomorrow. If you will permit, I will take my leave now.”

“I hope you don’t plan on dining at a tea house again, Doctor Watson. You have done so twice already and it is rather doubtful that you will find engaging company once again.”

In spite of his previous encounters with Mr. Scott and the last few months with Holmes, the doctor was rather taken aback by the oration. Was the entire family full of savants? He chuckled then, “It is a bachelor’s bane, my lady. Though I must admit that the ABC serves far better food than army rations and I could eat the same meal each day and still not complain.”

Her laughter tinkled, “Ah Doctor, you shame us lotus eaters.”

“Never, my lady.”

“There, I refuse to pardon you. I condemn you to some good tea and cake albeit with my pair of hoodlums, and there will be a basket sent to your lodgings for supper. You have been unwell and haven’t had much rest. Not one word, mind you.”

She then proceeded to ring for a servant who she instructed to alert her children that they were to take tea in company. As the servant left, she gave him a note, “Read it while we wait to be escorted to the nursery to meet the children. I am afraid I will have to desert you soon and return to my salon. However, this meeting will ensure that should I be away from home, the children can be in the same room as you. This should keep Catherine calm. After tea they will accompany you to Catherine's parlour. You may stay as long as you deem fit. I will ensure that I accompany you from tomorrow.”

He quickly opened and read the note. It was a note from Holmes and he drew in a sharp breath on seeing the familiar scrawl. The countess smiled her half smile and said, “I suppose he wants you to investigate some things here without divulging a word of his plans.”

“My lady!”

“Oh tosh! Doctor Watson. I know my cousins far too much. My only wish is they would trust others who have proved their loyalty as you have. Now just say aye or nay to what I ask. Does he say anything about the lady?”

“I am afraid not my lady.”

“But he has asked you to investigate.”

“Yes my lady.”

The countess was quiet for a while, then she took a deep breath and continued, “I have some suspicions but I shall not air them without proof. My only advice is not to take anyone or anything for granted. Don’t believe a word anyone says unless you have significant reason to do so. I have met the person accused. She has a soul of steel, the face of the most beautiful of sirens, and the mind of the most resolute of Valkyries. Indeed there are no lengths to which she will not go—none— to ensure that her loved ones are safe. But she has always had a reputation of honest dealings. She is no blackmailer. No matter what the King says. Keep that in mind my dear Doctor.”

There was a soft knock just then and in tripped a pair of brother and sister. Twins as Doctor Watson was told. Henrietta, who promptly told him that she was a whole half hour the elder, and George, who had such an impish look when he related that they had come to _invite Doctor Watson_ up to the nursery, that there was no doubt as to who had birthed him. A quiet boy followed them. He looked like a miniature Mycroft!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in posting this chapter.
> 
> The Aerated Bread Company (ABC) started as a bread making company that had a patented process of introducing carbon dioxide into the bread through machines without using yeast. Hence, the whole process of kneading, that used human feet, was eliminated and the new bread was more hygienic and cheaper (low human touch, low labour cost). They soon branched into a chain of coffee/tea houses in London. What a boon these must have been to bachelors! There were other such shops of course, but ABC gained a reputation for being safe enough for women to dine alone. Something that was unheard of till then. I do believe this had at least a small impact on helping women attain greater freedom back then.  
> And yes, tea and coffee were luxuries at one time!
> 
> Once again I leave a thread hanging (and introduce three new characters!). The fic has taken a life of its own and my only hope is that this doesn't turn into one of the TV soap operas that go on and on :D. Until next time!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The children

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter minus Mycroft and of laying out the back ground. Sorry its slowed down so much but Mycroft's back in the next instalment!

The tea in the nursery was everything Doctor Watson had anticipated. He is pretty sure he was in a numb daze, deliberately blocking a part of his mind that was bent upon analysing appearances and making him ‘see’. But he is equally sure that in all other ways he behaved impeccably. There was ostentatious observance of rituals such as only the upper classes could achieve, there was much giggling and primping and numerous questions as only precocious nine year olds of Holmes’ descent could achieve, and then there was sage nodding, piercing looks, barely suppressed curiosity, and prim behaviour as only the nephew of Holmes and the son of Mycroft could achieve. “My name is Quentin Holmes, sir. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Master Holmes. If you are indeed the son of Mr. Mycroft Holmes then I have had the pleasure of meeting your father as well.”

The child momentarily brightened visibly and it did not take a Holmesian brain to deduce that he hero-worshipped his father. Watson decided to push a little further, “And I also have the pleasure of being your uncle Sherlock’s friend and fellow lodger.” Now the tentative smile grew into a grin, which stayed. For all his asocial tendencies Holmes seemed to be a favourite uncle and Watson wasn’t surprised. He simply added the revelation as another piece to the Holmes mystery.

Lady Harriet (given name Artemis) resembled her mother rather closely but she could have given any courtier stiff competition in the _let’s behave staid and proper_ department. However, every now and then childish giggles would escape her especially following her brother’s antics, bringing a smile to Watson’s face.

Lord George (given name Darius) on the other hand looked nothing like her but still resembled her. He couldn’t stop smiling, had an open countenance and couldn’t keep his questions to himself. That Quentin couldn’t stop looking askance at his antics made the two even more like their parents.

In spite of his quiet ways, Quentin of course was the one who took the lion’s share of his attention. He desperately tried to emulate his father’s calm poise through tea. Down to his mannerisms, his carriage and even the way he held his cup. But, just as Lady Harriet’s giggles couldn’t be contained, every now and then a whimsical smile would play on his lips or he would pose a question with open curiosity and John Watson would be reminded of Holmes (and if he were being brutally honest a bit like his Mr. Scott). He also had Holmes’ tendency for non sequiturs, something that the no-less-intelligent Lady Harriet diligently ignored and the equally precocious Lord George ridiculed him mercilessly about.

But, being children they had no reticence. Soon, between them and owing to his own engaging manner, Watson learnt that the trip to London was a special treat for the three of them, that they usually lived in _the country_ which was _a far better place to raise children_ according to the elders. That of the three, only Lady Harriet showed any bent towards the musical, but that she played the lyre. That Uncle Sherlock was simply brilliant! And didn’t Doctor Watson think so too? That Master Quentin was to attend Eton in two years. That Harriet hoped that Mrs. Catherine would soon be well enough to be her governess or she would have no one to teach her Math, Latin and Greek, which Uncle Mycroft told her were necessary to be able to attend college.

It was soon time to brush off the crumbs and return to the world outside the nursery. The children led him to the same parlour as the day before. Once again, the maid was sitting at the door as a sentinel. She curtsied to the Doctor and resumed her seat at his insistence. Watson greeted Mrs. Maynard softly and then took the same chair as before, allowing the children to scatter about the room as they pleased. Lady Harriet insisted on sitting near Mrs. Maynard. Master Quentin chose a seat in between, rather like the countess had and Lord George flitted about, talking to everyone and himself. He even made Mrs. Maynard respond and though her subdued voice did not reach his ears, Watson saw her replying to him.

On one such occasion he was taken aback to realise that his patient was observing him keenly. He passed a small smile and again made as if all his attention was on the children. However, he now occasionally glanced at the lady whenever Lord George made it possible. He soon realised that she was not merely observing him but rather ‘guarding her charges’. If he so much as smiled the wrong way at them he would alarm her. It was both a concern and an opportunity and in his mind he thanked the shrewd countess once again. His good behaviour towards the children could pave the way to winning his patient’s trust.

After his allocated half hour was up, Watson excused himself and was once again shown out by a footman. In the hall, the butler requested him to wait while a cab was called for him. He directed the loading of a basket in the cab once it arrived and gave a quick bow before turning back into the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what do you think? Is this becoming a fanfic equivalent of Bold and Beautiful? Endless subplots and minor characters.  
> I know how I'm going to wrap it all up but don't wanna lose my precious readers out of sheer boredom.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson investigates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in updating.
> 
> I seriously can't believe I have about 20000 words and 15 chapters written here! :-O
> 
> Thanks guys!
> 
> 17/10/2017: This chapter now has fanart!!!!  
> Follow this link to the wonderful [Georgefittleworth's](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12388956) page please.

As soon as the hansom was on its way Doctor Watson was lost in thought. With the removal of the presence of the children and his patient he had no shield left against the onslaught of the thoughts that had been threatening him since his eyes met an eleven-year-old boy. His thoughts were an un-ending spiral. Mycroft Holmes was married. He had a child. He had a wife. There was a lady, a woman, that Mycroft Holmes loved enough to marry and have a child with. By the time the cab reached Baker Street, Watson had a pounding headache. He refused to call it heartache.

Watson forced himself to follow his routine. Tim had made the fire in the rooms. Watson left the basket with him. Instructing him to keep it for dinner the next day. He was sure he wouldn’t be eating anymore today. As he slipped into his housecoat he chided himself over his morose mood. He was acting like a maiden in a dime novel, thrown over by her knight. He needed to concentrate on his patients and the case. He couldn’t afford childish sulks. He gave a soldierly shrug and spelled out the truth to himself. His Mr. Scott was no longer his.

After about two hours of continuing on his reading for Mrs. Maynard’s case and resting he changed into his evening clothes to step out. He wore his darkest clothes and, for good measure, added a dark scarf to hide his collar and shirtfront. He was sure his great coat would do the rest. He pulled out the note once again, memorised the address and set out on foot in the wrong direction. A few streets later he picked up a cab and directed him to St. John’s Wood. When he reached the locale he asked to be dropped two streets away and then walked till he was across the street from the door of the house. He noted the door just closing behind an arrival. He ambled along trying to see if he could get a vantage point. The curtains in the front of the house were all drawn. He reached the end of the street and made for the pathway behind the row. It edged a park. As he reached the back of the house again he noticed an uncovered window and drew a breath of relief. Slowing down he realised that he was indeed correct, a small brightly lit parlour overlooked the park. The surrounding wall was low enough to enjoy the view, and it was indeed supper time. Without staring obviously, he easily made out the occupants as a boy of about eight, an elderly lady, well dressed and speaking with wild gesticulations, another younger one, quietly helping the child, tidily dressed but in sensible clothing. A governess perhaps. A nurse would not sit at the same table. He dropped his hat deliberately and took his own time reaching for it. Two servants entered carrying a tureen and a platter. As the door opened, he noted a man stationed at it.

“What are you looking at?” Watson was startled to see a coarse looking man accosting him from inside the wall.

“Nothing at all, my good man. Just getting my hat. But it is nice to see a family at dinner. Isn’t it? Warms one’s heart.” Watson brazened it out, marvelling at himself. A few months back he would have found himself flustered and unable to reply. Hell! A few months back he wouldn’t be in a situation that required peeking into a respectable house during dinner. Holmes had a lot to answer for. He casually brushed off his hat and placed it on his head again. Nodding again to the man pleasantly tipped two fingers. As he turned towards the path he noted that another had joined the man at the door. Both had been looking out. Also, the curtains on the first storey had twitched. Someone had been looking down. Damn! He hoped he hadn’t been indiscreet. Without any visible hurry he steadily made his way down the path till he found an entrance into the park.

As he entered the relative darkness of the park he realised that someone was following him. Two sets of feet. He quickened his pace. He had his service revolver but he would rather not use it. If he could clear the trees and get to the pond, where there were bound to be a few stragglers, he would be safe. He felt the distance between his pursuers increasing, with some relief. A few steps and the path bent sharply to accommodate a rather large plane trunk. He had just taken the turn when he was pulled bodily and a long fingered hand covered his mouth.

“Doctor!”

That hushed single word quieted him and he patted the hand on his mouth. His mouth was released but the arm around his chest tugged him further in. Slowly, without rustling the dead leaves on the ground, they gained the shadow of the tree.

As the footsteps drew closer, the arm around him tightened and they were practically hugging the tree. A second later he was tugged further behind. The men would have now turned the bend and would have been able to see them, had they not retreated further. As distance muffled his pursuers footsteps, he became aware of the warm cheek against his temple. His rescuer loosened his hold and exhaled roughly. It ghosted on his own cheek and the bridge of his nose and he shivered in response. His reaction stilled the man behind him. The arm around him loosened and he was finally able to turn around in its circle to face his captor. The shadows of the evening once again shaded the face. But today he could have picked it among thousands. Just as he had picked the voice in that single hushed word. He raised his eyes past the small cleft in the chin, the shadowed dip of those lips, the long point of the nose, and today he knew that those eyes were the colour of the seas when a summer storm was about to break at high noon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 17/1/2017: In case you missed my ecstatic pronouncement earlier:  
> The lovely Georgefittleworth had sketched for us [THE SCENE](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12388956).  
> __________  
> So as I promised, HE IS BACK!  
> ( **Oliveria** dear I hope it is clear by now who it was that kissed John's brow that night. Sherlock does not have a long nose. See I promised no triangles)
> 
> Sorry for the whole gothic set-up in that last scene. Blame it on my misspent youth and all the bodice rippers aka M&B historicals that I read.  
> If you don't believe me then heres a pic of a plane tree. They truly can be large enough to hide two full grown men, and yes, they do exist in London.  
> Dime novels are what you would have resorted to if you wanted to read smutty feels back then. Of course quite a few dealt with swashbuckling heroes or even children stories. The first one was published in 1860 so by the time of my fic it should be firmly entrenched in popular lingo I think. 
> 
> And yes, I am having Watson investigate stuff alone. Even ACD had a few of those including the HoundofB. 
> 
> As for why the British Government was out trailing our favourite Doc, or whether said doc will forget the existence of a child and wife and fling himself in the BG's arms- Patience gentle readers.  
> _____________
> 
> Still un-betaed or period-dusted or language polished so please forgive the errors and do let me know so I correct them and don't repeat them.
> 
> See ya soon


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter the adventuress.

A shrill laugh was followed by a guffaw. A group of five passed the tree in the opposite direction. Soon, another two gents followed a couple of steps behind the two men and three ladies of the group. As the group neared the same gate that Watson had cleared a lifetime ago, the stragglers parted and veered away. The sudden lights from the houses and the gaslights on the path were a relief to the Doctor’s eyes and he blinked rapidly a couple of times. He had barely adjusted his eyes to the change when a slim youth in an ulster hurried by with a, “Good evening, Doctor Watson.”

His response was a polite reflex. But he was left wondering who it might have been.

However, his companion stared down the well lit path, "I've heard that voice before," he said. "Now, I wonder who the deuce that could have been."

The two made their way back to Baker St. For once, Mycroft summoned a cab on the street. The Doctor did not question the choice of their destination. Though, he would have preferred to be quite alone at the moment. The silence lasted till they were in the living room of the flat. As he hung their coats, Watson asked, “Would you like a drink, Mr. Holmes?”

He was just handing Mycroft the port when Tim knocked to ask if he was at home for a visitor. It was rather late and they had barely spoken to understand what was going on. Watson looked to Mycroft who merely shrugged.

“Send them up, Tim.”

The footfall on the steps was soft and quick. The rap on the door was sharp but confident. At Watson’s permission, the door opened and a youth entered. He bowed looking at both questioningly, “Good morning, sirs. I believe I am in the august presence of Doctor Watson and...” He trailed off looking questioningly at Mycroft.

“Indeed, sir. I am Watson. Pray take a seat,” said Watson. “This is my friend, Mr. Holmes. Whom do I have the honour to address?”

“Mr. _Sherlock_ Holmes?” the youth looked doubtful.

“I am afraid, not, sir. I am but his brother.”

The querying brow cleared then and he smiled, “Mr. Mycroft Holmes, then.”

It was now Mycroft’s turn to raise a querying but appreciative brow as he gave the youth a shallow bow. “You are at an advantage, sir.”

The youth had a slim build and but for his height would have looked a mere boy. He had a clean chin and his long brown hair, swept away from his face, dipped below his collar. He rested his hat on his thigh as he sat, crossing his legs, smiling benignly. “Well done, Doctor Watson. Was it you who discovered the address, Mr. Holmes? I first thought you were your sibling. What secrets, pray, would a family dining together reveal to someone such as yourself? Even when I followed you and greeted you to get a good look at your face I couldn’t believe that I was really an object of interest to the celebrated Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his companion Doctor Watson. And now having followed you to your doorstep I find that it’s not just them but also the far more interesting Mr. Mycroft Holmes who shares that interest.”

Watson looked stunned as Mycroft merely took a shallow bow. “You have moved _it_ since.” He queried calmly.

“ _It_ was never in the house. But that is not what I came to discuss.," he dismissed with a flick of his hand, "I have no intention of engaging in a battle of wits or power, Mr. Holmes. I merely wish that your _client_ would leave me alone. I have long retired from the stage and the notoriety of my fame has since faded. I wish to lead a quiet life now, far from my past.”

“Then you would have no problems with acceding to my client’s wishes and returning his letters and the photograph, _Mademoiselle_. After all I can hardly see what use the _memento mori_ of an affair past are going to be to you?”

“I keep it only to safeguard myself and my loved ones, sir, and to preserve a weapon which will always secure me from any steps which your client might take in the future. Please tell your client that he may be at peace. He may do what he will without hindrance from one whom he has cruelly wronged. I know the best resource now is flight, when pursued by so formidable an antagonist; so I have moved my household and you will find the house empty should you call. Should you have me followed, I would not lead you to the photograph and letters and I assure you I am not carrying anything on my person. It will be difficult, but I intend to disappear. Please, Mr. Holmes, persuade your client to desist.”

Mycroft gazed at the youth and without removing his eyes from him said, “Rather rude of me not to have introduced you, Mademoiselle. Doctor Watson, allow me to introduce _Miss Irene Adler_ who I had the fortune of praising to you not two days back.”

Irene Adler! She looked like no adventuress, her integrity shone in her countenance and had it been up to Doctor Watson he would have agreed to her requests there and then. Meanwhile, Mycroft continued unabated. “That you do not carry them is in no doubt, Mademoiselle. It would be difficult to do so with its casing. However, what assurances have we that you do indeed intend to follow your words?”

Miss Adler turned thoughtful. She seemed to be struggling to come to a decision. She looked up to gaze into Watson’s face with such scrutiny that it took all his soldier’s training not to squirm. Then she looked at Mycroft and gave a crooked smile. “Mr. Holmes I have no doubt that you will choose to do what you perceive is best for your purposes even if you couch them in patriotic terms. You are a seasoned player and I cannot appeal to you at all. Doctor Watson, I have heard of your discretion and kindness. Can I now implore you to exercise the same on my behalf? I do not confide in you easily. The information could harm someone innocent. I assure you I do not ask you to break faith with your client, nor compromise your integrity, nor your patriotic notions.”

Watson’s face turned grave as he replied her. “I promise.”

If Mycroft was affected by her criticism he showed nary a concern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for cutting short their tryst. The muse is in an anti-romantic mood.  
> Yes, I copied quite a few ACD sentences verbatim! And yeah I turned the scene on its head a bit seeing how its not Sherlock but Watson that she greets and yeah Sherlock is missing all the fun in this one. Sorry but it is a Johncroft!  
> Mycroft thinks he has heard the voice before because he has seen her perform on stage.  
> Watson is his usual chivalrous self in immediately believing a damsel in distress, but as I've mentioned before its not naiveté he does have a rather strong moral compass and follows social mores but with the exception of the Holmes brothers he seldom goes on blind faith alone.  
> Yep, my Irene is more ACD than BBC. In fact she is not BBC at all. That Irene is willing to speak up is I believe down to Mycroft's reputation but she will not concede that, hoping to appeal to Watson's good heart as well. Plus, much as I like her, I don't think she is above manipulating these two.  
> Yes, memento mori are those photos that the Victorians posed for with the dead bodies of their loved ones and yes Mycroft is being highly sarcastic that he refers to the photo in question as one. I thought it fitted better than disjecta membra that Holmes uses in the Blue Carbuncle.  
> And yeah, I have fun writing Tim's dialogues.  
> _________  
> To tag or not to tag- Two questions on this front  
> 1) I seem to be throwing characters and subplots in willynilly. So I guess its freeform. Does anyone object to my not adding that to the tags? Does a tag distract or attract?  
> 2) I have rated it mature because it has a mix of violence as well as mentions of abuse etc. Plus I have added tags for those. There will be another mention of rape (in the past, descriptions could get explicit) and multiple mentions of PTSD (as Catherine's part is explored). I fear there may be readers who find it disturbing. Do I need to add additional warning in the tags? Please help.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss Adler narrates her story.  
> Mycroft negotiates.  
> But what could convince her?

Their visitor dragged in a ragged breath and started, “ _I have a son_. Very few know of his existence. No, the King is not the father. I was forced.” Watson gasped at the bland pronouncement. “Fortunately both I and my career survived it. The latter flourished and rather soon. I had just entered the period of my highest success when I met the King. Outwardly I was confident but inwardly I quaked in fear. I feared that past events would repeat themselves or that the perpetrator would learn of my child and hunt us down. I had made a habit of keeping around trusted bodyguards to deter bodily harm and acquiring other _safeguards_ against potential threats. To date I have never used any of it to blackmail anyone.”

By this point Watson was rather in sympathy with the lady. He could easily concede that such beauty, poise, and courage were fit to grace a throne. Small wonder that a King had courted her.

“The protection of the King was indeed a succour. He was the crown prince then but nonetheless the heir to a powerful title. I was glad to have a powerful protector. We had an affectionate liaison that lasted just less than an year and half. During that time while I did not fully let my guard down I did indeed relax it somewhat. However, towards the end, things began to change. _He_ began to change. He began to be short and terse with me. He became highly secretive of even the tiniest detail of his routine or acquaintance. He seemed to be under considerable strain but any considerate query only resulted in responses contrived to demean me. I realised that the end was near. Providence smiled and my contract required me to move to Paris.

“I decided to move with all my possessions for good. My house and my servants were my own and I could prepare and dispose of everything in utmost secrecy. It is indeed providence that I had thought so far ahead. One day as I entered the rooms where we frequently rendezvoused, the Prince had a visitor. I barely saw his face but the Prince was livid with fury. He accused me of spying on him and threatened my son if I mentioned it to anyone. How he knew of my son escapes me. He had never acknowledged his existence before. I feigned meek compliance. I couldn’t afford a single misstep. That night as I left those rooms I picked a single photograph from the desk of the study. It was the only one with both of us together. It would serve as my safeguard. The letters I had previously saved could easily be declared a forgery. But the photograph had both of us.

“I left a missive assuring him that I would let it be known in the relevant circles that _he_ had grown bored of me and had cast me off. I also assured him that I would never try to contact him or his office in any manner nor allude to our acquaintance in any way other than for the previous reason.

“I left for Paris the very next morning. I fulfilled my contract there for the next three months and then quietly retired and left for England.”

She paused here. Seemingly to collect her thoughts. “Tell us of the attacks, Mademoiselle,” prompted Mycroft.

She looked at him through narrowed eyes, then at the Doctor. Something in his demeanour must have reassured her for she continued.

“Since the day I left for Paris, the King has made multiple attempts to retrieve the letters and photograph. At least two of them were severe enough that I feared for the life of members of my household and me. Indeed in one of them a bodyguard was severely injured and had to leave the service for good. My house has been burgled, my luggage has been diverted when I travelled, and twice I have been waylaid." She turned to Watson and said, " Your attempt of arson, no doubt along with Mr. Holmes’, was perhaps the most benign.”

While it added up exactly to the same as the countess’ report, Watson was startled to find that he was being held party to the last. He saw a sharp look on his companion’s face as well.

“Do not fret, Mr. Holmes, as you have seen this evening, my child is safe and was not residing at that house.” Miss Adler assured astutely. Then drew another deep breath and continued, “I cannot fathom why he pursues me so. His impending marriage notwithstanding, I am a woman of my word. Anybody who has known me would tell you that I would never blackmail anyone. The King may do what he will without hindrance from one whom he has cruelly wronged. I keep it only to safeguard myself, and to preserve a weapon which will always secure me from any steps which he might take in the future. So again I implore you to convince the King to let me go in peace.”

Through her narrative she had addressed both of them equally, but the last she directed solely to Mycroft.

Watson recalled the countess’ words— _a soul of steel, the face of the most beautiful of sirens, and the mind of the most resolute of Valkyries… no lengths to which she will not go … not separated from the one she loves_.

He wondered if she did indeed suspect some of what had just been narrated. Then he recalled her advice— _Don’t believe a word anyone says unless you have significant reason to do so._

Mycroft finally broke his silence, “Mademoiselle, would you allow me to examine the photograph? You have my word that I shall not try to take it away by force.”

“I am sorry, Mr. Holmes, that would take time that I cannot spare. My plans are in motion and I cannot dither.”

“Mademoiselle, I beg of you, reconsider.”

“You have a son, Mr. Holmes. Would you give away the very shield that protects him?” The words froze Watson but, as always, Mycroft was unfazed.

“Not even if it allows me to convince the King to accede to your request? Come now, it is in your interests that you give me a chance.”

The look that Miss Adler fixed on the government functionary reminded Watson of Holmes’ scrutiny of most witnesses. It stripped the receiver down to the inner most working of his mind and soul.

She then slowly turned her gaze on Watson. But added now, there seemed to be a question in her gaze that had not been directed at Mycroft. Watson found himself pulling his back straight. _Trust him._ _I will vouch for his word._ He seemed to reply. Then he looked back to Mycroft, urging him wordlessly to reassure her.

“Mademoiselle, I have a quick warning for you. On his way back, two men followed Doctor Watson. Unsavoury characters.”

“You think I was responsible?”

“No, I fear that _someone else_ was.”

She drew in a sharp breath at that. “I see.” Her jaws tightened and she fixed her eyes on Mycroft, “Why do you tell me this?”

“I don’t take lightly to being gulled.” He answered steadily.

She nodded. “I will send you word.”

So saying she stood and covered her head again. As she put on her coat and turned to bid them goodbye, Watson saw her changing her stance. In those few moments the delicacy of a woman was lost and the tentative confidence of a young gentleman was gained. The transformation was dazzling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely people  
> Have I confused you enough yet?
> 
> Like I said I may like ACD Irene but I see her as a worldly woman who has no romantic notions of chivalry and is not above manipulating situations to suit her. However, I will stick to the ACD version of her being a woman of her word and also one who even the King believed would have been worthy of a crown.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doctor Watson can be rude.

As the door closed behind their visitor, a bemused Mycroft turned to Watson and said, “She refused to take my word for it, Doctor. The keeper of my conscience, are you?”

Before Watson could form a response to the sardonic question, Mycroft broke his gaze and swung back into his chair again. Mycroft finally took a sip from his untouched glass.

Watson’s agitation returned. For some reason this simple gesture and the preceding question only angered him. He had a hard time reining it in. “I hope my recent bungling effort hasn’t proved a setback for the case. If, as you say, the two thugs weren’t Miss Adler’s men then, can you tell me who they were?”

“To the first the answer is a definite no. I would assert that your actions today may have actually helped us. Single-handed, you managed to get us a meeting with our target, something that the combined forces of the King and my office have failed to do. Strangely, or perhaps not so strangely," a snide smile there, "you also managed to gain her confidence. My congratulations. And again no, I cannot definitely say at present whose men those were. I do hope that we did not lead them to her house. That would be a disaster.”

“I see. Thank you. I am glad I did not make things worse. If you would kindly let me know whether you have any instructions regarding my efforts for this case, seeing as I couldn’t completely fulfil Holmes’ directive.”

“I shall let you know.” There was a pause and then he continued, “I hope you are having some success with Mrs. Maynard. My cousin prizes her.”

“And hence, by association, so do you.” It was uttered like a statement, but felt like a question.

Mycroft took another sip and replied, “She is a _good_ woman. They are rare. Tell me, Doctor Watson, what do you make of your most recent visitor? Would you categorise _her_ as such?” The tone was provoking.

“Hardly up to me to judge, _Mr. Holmes_.” Watson’s cold reply did not ruffle Mycroft.

“But, unless she is a good woman, why would you promise to help her?”

“You mistake me, sir. I was helping your brother’s case, not Miss Adler. You did say that you would like to see the photograph, didn’t you? I simply hoped that she would be reassured that your word did indeed hold some veracity.”

“Only _some_?”

"..."

“You no longer trust my word, do you Doctor?”

“Do you have further need of me, Mr. Holmes?” Watson was aware that he was bordering on rude now but he was tired and the earlier headache had returned with a vengeance. He had also hoped for some more time to disengage himself from his illusions.

“I would have the reason for your offhand dismissal of my integrity.”

Watson rubbed his face with his palm and gave an irritated growl. “Please. Sir. It has been a long and tiring day for me. I am not at my best. I request you to leave me and my thoughts alone, before I say something that I will regret later. Please.” The words were there but the tone was anything but a plea.

“But then you would have a chance to weave a falsity, perhaps even make yourself believe it. No matter how unpleasant, at least you would give me the truth right now.”

Watson hardly knew what he was doing now; he walked to the front door and flung it open.

*****

The following morning Watson woke to Tim’s noisy attempts at clearing the rooms and lighting the fire. His slumber had been restless and full of strange dreams - of men morphing themselves into women, of being stabbed in the back by unknown hands, of a child accusing him of being rude. At least they hadn’t been his usual nightmares from the army, he consoled himself.

He steadfastly refused to recount the previous evening’s conversation with Mycroft and simply hoped it would be a long time before they met again. The man had done everything to provoke him and lead him away from any coherent thought. He had entirely forgotten that he had a number of questions to put forth. Some of them even regarding the case itself. Such as why was he in the vicinity? How had he known that Watson would pass that tree? And what happened to limiting their acquaintance?

He wished Holmes would come back soon. In spite of assurances to the contrary, he was still worried for his friend. Holmes’ propensity to charge heedlessly into danger and his presumption that anything “ _for a case_ ” take priority was worrisome even when he had Watson to save him or admonish him. Without that safeguard, the man would be like a reckless child.

He planned his day as he shaved and dressed. He had two patients to visit and then he needed to be at the chambers for about an hour. He would come back to the rooms to dine on the previous day's basket (his soldier’s frugality refusing to let any food go to waste) and then he would make his way to see Mrs. Maynard.

His visits to Mr. Baker and Mrs. Forrester were satisfactory. His predictions of Mr. Baker’s recovery were proving true and Miss Mary Morstan had once again been visiting her garrulous and well meaning aunt. The time at the chambers had been well spent and his senior partner had been proud to boast of a connection with the Countess of Sherringford. He had merely parroted the lines dictated by the countess, but he was finally feeling that he wasn’t merely taking advantage of his partner’s accommodating nature.

As he neared the flat he was both pleased and dismayed at seeing the familiar figure of Mrs. Hudson’s maid. Shaking his head he realised the old lady was back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trivia- the word thugs has an Indian origin. The word refers to bands of vicious criminals in the wilderness of northern and central India during older times that used to trick people/caravans etc., lure them and many times kill them. They have spawned many legends and became a thorn in the side of the East India Co. as well (not out of any patriotic notions mind you). So I think Watson may have the word in his slang but I am not sure if it was common parlance.
> 
> I had a hard time editing this chapter and not for the first time realised I need a sounding board. I'm promising myself that I'm going to actively search for one for my next fic (no idea how one goes about it, if you know how drop a note right away and i'll send you pink macaroons).  
> In the mean time, the story is finally in a better shape in that all characters and threads are coming together. Whew!  
> You guys have no idea how scared I was that it would all scatter away. So now its back to having at least 2 chapters written ahead in a very long time.  
> ______________________
> 
> Was Watson OOC for you? Of course Watson can be rude and yes he has difficulty letting go of anger. So we shall see how that goes.  
> Was Mycroft OOC in pushing him, cos yes that was deliberate provoking? So far he has merely seen Watson being in awe of him or infatuated with him. I think Watson hates that it all seems one-sided and Mycroft is an idiot who wants it all and expects the other party to simply 'get-it'. And yeah he can be an arse when he is jealous. Irene instantly bonding with Watson got him. (I had to turn around the whole canon on its head where John's jealous of Sherlock and Irene)  
> Ofcourse John's not sure why Mycroft is acting like a dick when he should be the one angry. Thats one thing both Holmeses have in common in my head canon  
> Sorry that the second half of the chapter seems more like a filler but hey I need John to figure things out a bit.  
> Ofcourse Mrs. H is back. I haven't given her much of a role I'm afraid (just the way she complains in TAB). But 221B wasn't the same without her.  
> _________  
> 29 Mar 2016: Edited some typos and grammaticals


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boys love mucky, slimy, ugly narratives.

Doctor Watson smiled to himself as he neared Piccadilly. The doughty lady hadn’t allowed him a single word edgewise on how dangerous it was for her to have returned. Whimsically he wondered if that was the reason that Britannia had always been depicted as an armed female warrior. If ever Mrs. Hudson deserted Baker Street for good, the kingdom would fall! He laughed to himself and wondered how those two - Mrs. Hudson and Holmes had met. A landlady didn’t care for her lodgers as much as she did. Especially one as dreadfully incorrigible as Sherlock Holmes. He would remember to ask at the first opportunity.

The footman who opened the door was the same one who had called for a cab the other day and he beamed at him as he took his hat and stick and great coat. The butler greeted him politely but a tad more warmly than any of the other occasions so far. With his journal and a bundle of papers under his arms he was once again led to the same parlour. The sun was bright today and the place looked rather cheerful. He gave a quick nod to the maid who had subtly changed her usual vocation to hemming what looked to be a new dress. He made a shallow bow to Mrs. Maynard and once again greeted her in a pleasant calm voice. Today they were to be buffered by only Master Quentin Homes. He hoped his presence wouldn’t trigger any more ugly reactions from himself. Much as he abhorred his actions and behaviour from the day before he couldn’t find it in himself to blame the child. He knew the blame lay only and firmly at his own feet. “A very good afternoon Master Holmes.”

“Good afternoon, sir. I hope you are well.” The impeccable mannerisms of a much older gentleman were enough to bring a smile to the Doctor. He decided to humour the young courtier.

“Indeed I am. I hope the same may be said of you.”

If the youngster was surprised by the response he showed no sign. Rather, it seemed to the doctor that like a true Holmes he took his aunt’s guest’s formality as his due. “I am well as well. Please wont you take a seat, sir. I am afraid my lady aunt isn’t available today and my cousins have an engagement elsewhere.”

Of course even eight year olds in noble households had _engagements_ , mused Watson. They probably started receiving embossed invitations whilst still in cradles. So amused was he that he decided to continue the polite drama. “Then I am indebted to you for obliging me with your company.”

The boy gave a shy smile that once again reminded him more of Holmes when secretly pleased. With a burst of youthful garrulity he said, “I have brought along my crayons and mean to practice my drawing. My tutor, Mr. Eyre thinks I show promise.” Then in a quieter voice, somewhat diffident, he added, “My lady aunt mentioned that you were likely to keep yourself occupied as well, sir.”

“I am sure you are good at it. I would have been delighted if we were to solely converse as well. However, companionable toil is equally gratifying. I have brought some notes to study. Shall we then?”

All through the exchange Watson was aware of the hawk-eyed scrutiny of his patient. He now lifted his head towards her and smiled. Then he slid a pencil in his note book and placed it on the corner table, turned to the papers he had borrowed from the library and opening them, started his study. He made sure that his stance was facing his patient throughout so as not to miss any reaction and also to assure her. His companion placed his board on his knees and was soon busy colouring.

They were about half way into the time Doctor Watson had allocated for the visit when he noticed his companion putting away his board and crayons. It was obvious that he was ‘bored’. The thought brought a smile to Watson and he raised his head enquiringly. The boy seemed reluctant to disturb his guest so the Doctor asked, “Are you stuck for inspiration, Master Holmes, or simply done for the day?”

“Aa… I’m not sure, sir. Can I ask you what you are doing?”

“But of course. I am going through some scientific papers from the Royal Library of Medicine. I am hoping that the learning of my senior colleagues in the field will help me with a recent case.”

He would have been disappointed indeed if a Holmes had not probed deeper so he was utterly unsurprised when the boy eagerly bounded from his place to come around and ask, “Is it a horrible disease, sir? Do they get crippled? Or do they cough blood?” What is it about boys that makes them prone to such morbid curiosity wondered the bemused ex-soldier. However, he was sure the topic of his research was not fit for such tender ears so he deflected the question a bit. Turning around to accommodate the child he realised that his patient had risen from her place and walked to the edge of the carpet, her body rigid with alarm. It was the same reaction she had whenever Lord George had come in his proximity the previous day. However, while George had been flitting around, Quentin was meaning to seat himself close and was bending towards him. He was sure that this is what had prompted her to act. _She perceived him as a threat._ He wasn’t sure how he should proceed. Was this a setback? Or an opportunity? He had not been expecting any change for quite some time. However, Captain Watson was not known for dithering. He quickly stood up to acknowledge her. Keeping himself bent at the waist. “Mrs. Maynard, would you kindly join us please? I have not much experience with young men and your guidance in our conversation would be much appreciated.”

He was rather surprised when she walked across and seated herself directly across from him. He was sure that each step had cost her and it was a testament to her courage that she paid it without hesitation in guarding young Quentin. He resumed his seat and turned once again to his eager audience. He had made up his mind.

“I am not sure sir, if this case and disease would be interesting enough for you. I am studying shell shock. A condition found among many soldiers and other _brave_ people who have been through war or traumatic incidents. I could tell you of other more stimulating cases if you could tell me the reason for your interest. Are you perchance looking to study in the field?”

Quentin Holmes took a moment to think, shaking his head as he formulated his answer. “I don’t think so. I want to be a scientist like Uncle Sherlock. Maybe even a detective. But then when I grow up I will do what Father does… I suppose.”

Under any other circumstances the last would have made the doctor laugh out loud. It laid out the sibling rivalry so clearly. The older sibling obviously saw being a detective as merely playing instead of using the vast intellect for more serious pursuits such as serving the Queen. In turn, he had heard Holmes belittling his brother’s vocation as a glorified accountant and pigeonhole. “That is a good plan. In which case perhaps you would be interested in the works of the physician and scientist Doctor Edward Jenner.”

He then went ahead describing, in all it’s gory details, the legendary procedure used by Jenner in vaccinating and proving its effectiveness. He was sure the description of blisters, pus, jabbing needles et al. would prove interesting enough to an eleven year old while still preserving his dignity as a doctor and a gentleman in the presence of the fairer sex. He then went on to describe how Jenner challenged his hypothesis, thereby proving it far more effectively than all his predecessors who had advocated vaccination (or variolation).

He brought his oration to an end. It was time to leave. A servant had brought in tea at some point and it had kept him from growing parched. Throughout the narrative, young Holmes had asked him questions and in general had been a keen listener. The lady on the other hand was perhaps not listening so much as watching. He hoped he had done the right thing there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope that wasn't too contrived. But I need to bring Mrs. M slowly to a point that I don't have any far fetched miraculous recoveries.
> 
> And yes, that bit about Mrs. H is BBC canon. :D  
> I see Quentin being influenced by and aspiring to emulate three elders in the family that he spends his time with- Mycroft, Sherlock and Anthea.  
> _________  
> Crayons have been in use since centuries. Wax crayons as we popularly recognise them today came into existence in the 19th century. I am not sure if an eleven year old school boy would be using those but perhaps in an affluent household that would be the case. And yes, Mr. Eyre is definitely related to my favourite, and in my opinion the first truly, modern heroine - **_Jane Eyre_**.
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crayon#History
> 
> http://www.crayoncollecting.com/hoc01.htm
> 
> Graphite pencils have been manufactured since the 1500s. They were rather popular with journalists and news reporters who needed to make notes on the go. I would like to believe that Watson would have developed a habit of using a pencil when he wrote in his journal during the war.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damn and blast!

The next day as Watson was running late, he decided to take a short cut. He smiled, admonishing himself that he ought to know better now after what had happened the last time. He ignored the momentary flicker of pain. He was in a good mood today and was determined to keep it that way. He had received a letter from his orderly in Afghanistan, Murray. The man had returned home as well. “Hale and hearty, with only a bit of my left ear missing,” he pronounced himself. He had invited the Captain to his home in Lansdowne near Glasgow. The letter was a pleasant surprise, but even more pleasant was that it had brought only pleasant memories. Then this morning, his partner had announced that Mrs. T, the wife of his long term patient, had completed the second trimester, and it had sent a small cheer in the chambers. The lady having twice miscarried within the first three months, both the husband and the doctor were reasonably anxious. And then, in between his appointments, when he had a lull he had continued reading those papers and had come across a rather similar case to Mrs. Maynard’s. Albeit about a man. He was now reasonably sure that yesterday had been a positive step ahead.

Yes, it had all been good thus far. And now if he was running a bit late for his usual appointment with Mrs. Maynard he felt buoyant enough to cross an alley. He had barely cleared the alley when a boyish voice rang out, “Doctor Watson, sir.” He looked across the road to see a carriage. Lord George was half hanging out of it’s window, waving boisterously. It was a perfect continuation to this lovely day and Watson smiled, crossed the street to meet the lad, and then doffed his hat rakishly getting a chuckle in response. Lady Harriet accompanied him and surprisingly so did the maid who sat by the door in Mrs. Maynard’s parlour. She bobbed comically, while seated, in response to his raised brow and now he couldn’t stop smiling. “Good afternoon Lady Harriet, Lord George, Miss. It’s a fine day to be out.”

“Are you on your way to the house, Doctor Watson?”

“I am.”

“Then you could join us. There’s room.”

“Thank you, kind sir. But it wouldn’t be proper, seeing as there’s Miss...”, he turned to the maid.

She promptly blushed and said, “It’s Barkis, sir. Just Barkis.”

“Thank you, Miss Barkis. So like I was saying, I will walk along and hopefully see you all shortly.”

“It’s alright, sir. The windows are open and if Lady Harriet wouldn’t mind sharing a seat with me…” here she trailed off. Not knowing whether it was too forward of her.

George excitedly jumped of his seat and crossed over to the other side. Barkis had no choice but to promptly sit besides her quieter charge and neither did Doctor Watson. He told himself it was a short distance.

But the time was sufficient for Lord George to have asked half a dozen questions of their guest and provided twice the number of pieces of unsolicited information. It was part a typical child, part Sherlock Holmes, part the Countess and wholly a Holmes even if he was not named one. They had been to a birthday party, for their three year old cousin, twice removed, on their father’s side. Cousin Quentin was not invited as he is not related. And anyways he is rather too _tall_ to go now. The cake had been good, but it was the pies and the chicken that he had loved. Aren’t things with salt better than things with sugar? But Harriet preferred cake so that was, he supposed, in all a good lunch. Barkis had been sent out with them ‘ _to give the poor girl a respite from the monotony’_. But their mother wasn’t sure if the poor girl was getting a respite or being _‘sent to purgatory with these two demons’_. But really, was there anything as marvellous as birthday parties? Of course it would have been better without the other performances but Harriet had been the last. And wasn’t that the best way to end the recitations? Harriet had played the lyre for everyone and that had been nice, because all the other recitations had been rubbish. Really what were the nannies thinking of by encouraging their _severely incompetent_ charges! Did Doctor Watson play?

He would have gone on but at the final turn, there was a clatter of wheels and a phaeton closed in towards them at reckless speed. The coachman tried to brake, their horses reared and the carriage lurched dangerously. Both Watson and Barkis were thrown on the carriage side, cushioning the children. Fortunately the carriage teetered and then righted itself. Then pistol shots rang out in the frenzy. Watson’s senses were screaming. He rapped the roof of the carriage and shouted out, “Don’t stop, man. Keep driving. Straight to the house as fast as possible.”

The children were visibly scared. Lord George was clinging to his arm; his face crushed in the crook, and the wide-eyed maid had her arm around Lady Harriet who was struggling to keep fear at bay. To her credit, Barkis neither screamed nor fainted. She held on white-knuckled to her seat with the one hand and held her charge close with the other.

Another few minutes and they were pulling into the drive of the Countess’ house. The coach-man sprang forth and opened the door.

“We are all safe, my good man. Get the door opened and have the butler come straight away.” The doctor stepped out and pulled George in his arms. He then helped the maid down who in turn nearly dragged out Harriet and carried her. They rushed inside. As the door closed behind them, Doctor Watson finally exhaled. He started asking the butler rapidly, “Is my Lady in? If so, please...” On seeing the negative on the man’s face he quickly started walking in the direction of the parlour where Mrs. Maynard usually sat, shepherding the maid to precede him. Damn and blast! His senses were still heightened and he was very sure that those had been pistol shots. In turn, that made him suspect that the whole incident had not been an accident but a pre-meditated plot. To what end, he wasn't yet sure. Was it aimed at the countess' house hold in general? Good Lord! He hoped it wasn't the children who had been targeted specifically. That would be unpardonable. He took another deep breath, deliberately slowed his steps and started instructing in his calmest but most commanding voice, provoking no panic, knowing he will be obeyed, and reassuring the man that he was in charge and he knew what he was doing.

 “There has been a small mishap with the carriage. No one was hurt. But they are all a bit shaken. They need to be kept warm and have an adult around them. Please tell their nurse to come down right away. Also, if Mrs. Maynard’s available then have her come as well. Do not tell her anything alarming. Simply that the children are waiting for her here. And please send a message to my lady the countess at the soonest.”

The parlour was pleasantly warm as usual and he saw Mrs. Maynard was already there. Strangely she was seated in the middle of the room. On the couch. With Quentin. With a shock, Watson realised it was where she sat the previous day to ‘protect’ Quentin. Both of them stood up in alarm and Quentin rushed to them. Continuing in the same tone, as if nothing was amiss and it was du jour to find him entering a home with a child cling to him, Watson said, “Master Holmes, you won’t believe the adventure we’ve had. Good afternoon Mrs. Maynard. I met the children on their way home.”

He slowly placed his burden beside her and motioned for the maid to do the same on the other side. He hunched down and asked the maid to pull up a chair and seat herself. The thrill of danger was wearing off and he could feel his legs shaking but he needed to do this. He continued to instruct and calm in his part captain part doctor voice.

“If you would be so kind as to sit on this side of Lord George, master Holmes.”

“I am sure Mrs. Maynard wants to hug you Lady Harriet.”

“Oh you were wonderful, Miss Barkis. Pull off your gloves and rub your hands together. Yes, warm them proper.”

“Should we shrug off our coats Lord George? It will soon get rather warm.”

“You too, my Lady Harriet?”

“And your hats as well please.”

“Aren’t these three wonderful Mrs. Maynard? You must be so proud of them.”

“Are you the nurse, madam? Do pull up a chair then.”

He kept up an unhurried monologue. His gentle voice keeping everyone and everything calm and occupied. He pulled in a few shaky smiles and even a giggle or two. The butler brought in tea and hot chocolate, doctor’s orders for warm drinks for everyone. By the time a worried Countess arrived, the scene was that of a cosy little domestic group huddled around as if it was Christmas Eve. Apart from the original core, there were three footmen and two maids rotating in and out of the room, doing their best to support the doctor in keeping the children occupied but NOT hovering around.

However, as soon as she entered, Lord George ran to her and burrowed himself in his mother’s skirts and burst out sobbing. As if on cue, Barkis no longer could contain herself, buried her face in a handkerchief and soon her shoulders were shaking. Finally, it was Lady Harriet’s turn who waited till her mother bent to hug her close and then promptly burst into tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes, I think there are people who think the best way to cope with trauma is to get the patient immediately to a safe environment and keep them from thinking about the whole thing and act normally till the adrenaline slowly comes down. I am not sure if it helps or not. But over the years I have seen too many people do this and perhaps its a human thing. As human as some people getting shocked into inaction. Thats where Watson's actions are coming from.
> 
> Delayed crying too is normal. But I am told that crying after any mishap is essential for everyone. So I made sure they all did. Except Watson of course but I don't think he is traumatised.
> 
> Things are rather chaotic I suppose. Do bear with me as it all culminates. The next chapter hopefully will tell you whats happening and why.  
> I do promise no character deaths minor or major. We have too many of those in real life and I'm a true escapist. So no deaths if I can help it.  
> 


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprises and miracles.

Upon the arrival of their mistress, most of the servants quietly stepped out and Doctor Watson followed them, closing the door after himself. He was escorted to another room and seated there. But first, the butler politely reminded him that in this entire bustle, the honourable doctor had forgotten to take off his own hat and coat. Though, there was a ghost of a smile on the face of the old retainer as he said it and proceeded to take those items personally. The man then returned to ask the doctor if he could bring him something stronger, which the Doctor declined. He knew the shock hadn’t worn out yet and he would need the drink whenever that happened. He had barely been there for ten minutes when Mycroft Holmes was ushered in. He abruptly gestured for the doctor not to rise and flung himself on the opposite chair. “The countess is with the children, I presume. I am told it was just Harriet and George with the maid?”

Doctor Watson understood the underlying query and hastened to assure, “Yes, Master Holmes was not with them.”

Mycroft nodded in thanks, “I don’t want to intrude yet. Let her calm them first and reassure herself. Your narration will keep till she joins us, Doctor. She will want to hear the whole of it. I only urge you not to temper your words or keep anything from either of us. My cousin had weathered far worse than this.” He signalled to the footman who strangely seemed to hesitate for a moment. Watching from the periphery of the world of the gentry and their faithful, Doctor Watson was amused. In less than a moment though, the footman left the room and brought in a tray with a small glass and presented it to the Doctor. He looked up with a slight frown.

“Drink up, Doctor. I prescribe it.” Mycroft said and in a flash the whole wordless exchange with the servant was clear. Watson picked up the glass and obediently put it to his lips.

They proceeded to sit in silence and wait for the countess. It must have been five minutes when the butler glided into the room and addressed Mycroft. “Mr. Holmes, sir. There is a bookseller at the door. He claims to have been requested by my lady to come today. When told that she was not home to anyone, he claimed to know you and said that it was you who had recommended him to my lady. He says its is extremely important that he see her immediately. I would have thrown him out, but he is a very old man and he is rather persistent, sir.” Mycroft nodded in permission.

Watson had seen the barest of reaction from Mycroft, but somehow he knew this was important. He wasn't sure why and looked intently at Mycroft but the mask was still firmly in place. A few moments later an elderly stooped man with a sharp, wizened face peering out from a frame of white hair including prominent white side-whiskers, entered the room, carrying several books.

“Good afternoon, sirs,” he said, in a voice creaking with age.

Mycroft nodded to the butler and requested him to leave and shut the door, with strict instructions not to disturb them unless the countess summoned either of the gentlemen. As the door closed, he said, “Doctor Watson, please put the glass on the table beside you. My brother’s theatrics unnerve even the most hardened men.”

Brow furrowed in confusion, Watson complied and then looked at the two men. Suddenly, the old gent straightened his back and proceeded to peel off his side-whiskers carefully and gave him a beaming smile! Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at him across the room.

He would have cried out in amazement but for Holmes theatrically clamping his own mouth with a hand and gesturing to him frantically, which effectively shut the poor doctor. Watson stared at him for some seconds in utter amazement, and then, shaking his head as if to clear it, he looked toward Mycroft who merely shrugged apologetically.

“My dear Watson,” said Holmes in a soft voice, “Pray do not raise the alarm of my presence yet.” So saying he carefully arranged those ‘ _whiskers’_ on a nearby table and stretched him self to relieve the pain that several hours of stooping must have caused. However, he kept speaking. “I am glad to find both of you here. It will save us a lot of time. Mycroft, there may be an attack on the children. I am not sure how or when but Anthea needs to be alerted.”

“Your information comes perhaps a tad too late, dear brother. The good doctor was witness to a near _accident_ earlier today. We are waiting for Anthea to join us, so he can narrate the whole incident.”

At the very first word, Holmes had looked to Watson, his eyes narrowing and nostrils slightly flared. It was there for a fraction of a moment and then gone, it wasn’t a violent reaction by most measures. But, for Doctor Watson, it translated to a very sharp reaction from him, and Holmes’ sharp reaction was such a contrast to Mycroft’s persistently calm demeanour that he was rather gratified. He remembered why he had grown so fond of his fellow-lodger in such a short time. He recalled describing him in contrasting adjectives, in several of his journal entries. For all his so-called apathy and disdain towards his fellow man, Holmes was a passionate creature, with a strong sense of right and wrong.

Doctor John Watson was relieved to see his friend again and his beaming countenance showed it.

*****

As soon as the countess joined them, she quickly assured them that the children would be fine and gave a quick description of what had happened, “Once the sobbing stopped, they were rather excited about their _adventure_. George was in full-swing, painting an exaggerated picture of the accident and the danger, theatrical gestures and dramatic phrases accompanied the oration. Harriet couldn’t help rolling her eyes and ‘nudging him towards facts’, but even she was obviously gratified when we all ooohed and aaahed at their reported collective and individual bravery. Doctor Watson was painted quite a hero. Commandeering the carriage to be ridden through the _battlefield_. I told Barkis to take rest of the day off but she declined saying work would be better. They all plan to spend the rest of the day in the nursery. Quentin elected to be there as well and has requested that his father meet him before leaving.”

This brought an acknowledging nod from Mycroft, and a theatrically morose sigh from Holmes asking, “Not _Uncle Sherlock?”,_ that the countess pointedly ignored.

Turning to the Doctor she said, “Thank you for being there, _my friend_. Here is a pleasant surprise for you. Mrs. Maynard is sitting with them. _Of her own volition!_  And _she spoke to me_. Just one sentence. But she said- _I will be with them, Anthea, you may go_.”

The countess paused and took a breath. “I don’t know what it is you did, Doctor Watson, but she spoke. On her own. Had I been myself when I entered the house, I would have remarked upon her presence in the room as well. She wasn’t hiding in her usual corner. She was sitting right in the middle of the room. Holding Harriet, warmly, as she used to. She hasn’t touched them since… since then. And now she wants to sit with them, protecting them. You have wrought a miracle.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo all  
> I am sure most of you recognised Holmes' manner of return from ACD's Empty House. The original had Watson fainting from shock. But with Holmes simply having disappeared for a case I didn't think that was necessary.
> 
> Also, I haven't put Anthea in the list of characters at the beginning. This is simply because the countess is nowhere similar to the BBC character. I simply borrowed her name, associated her with Mycroft and of course pictured her about the same. So I've left her as an OC.
> 
> I am hoping that the first steps of Mrs. M's recovery haven't sounded far fetched.
> 
> Many of you have asked and this chapter may make it seem so but- Mycroft is NOT a negligent or a distant father. He is simply a product of the times and his social peer group. Do note that he did ask about Quentin in a manner. I do have a father-son interaction somewhere but its not really pivotal to the story. But yes, more about Quentin Holmes will be revealed as we progress.  
> And yeah the whole butler himself taking the Doctor's coat is remarkable as in there was a strict hierarchy among the servants as well and this was typically a footman's task. You would however, see a devoted butler perform this duty for the master of the house or as in this case a privileged and well liked guest.
> 
> Similarly, servants were meant to anticipate all needs especially of the family. And hence, the scene where Mycroft almost wordlessly orders a drink for Watson is rather expected.  
> ____________
> 
> Once again, do let me know if there're any criticisms, suggestions, errors, etc. I'd love to hear from you.  
> It really makes my day.
> 
> Hope you have a wonderful weekend and a very happy valentine's day to all who celebrate it.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plan

Doctor Watson was at once relieved and overwhelmed. He hadn’t been sure whether what worked for soldiers in a battlefield should have been used for two frightened children and their maid. But, as an army captain, his repertoire was rather limited. Then, the countess with all her usual graciousness and sincerity had called him a _friend_. And now, news that his patient showed signs of recovery. He had no doubts that it was another step towards recovery.

“It seems you have struck my Boswell speechless, cousin.” Holmes drawled into the ensuing silence. Watson broke into a bashful smile then. “But I must insist on relaying my news I’m afraid. We have already delayed too much.”

Indeed, to Watson, it was clear that his friend’s impatience had barely been restrained as they had waited for the countess.

“ _The Woman_ has vanished once again. The house has been emptied overnight and no evidence of its erstwhile inhabitants remains.” Watson thought he noticed Mycroft’s jaw imperceptibly tightening. “However, that was to be expected, I suppose. La Adler trusts no one.” He said it rather admiringly. “I was there before breakfast and the entire household had vanished without a trace. That speaks well of her readiness. I managed to enter the house and check it thoroughly but couldn’t find anything. However, as I was leaving it, I almost ran into the next set of it’s visitors. I am rather sure they were the same ones that Doctor Watson and I rescued you from a few days back, Mycroft.” A concrete enemy at last! Watson finally found himself relaxing. “I had made some enquiries regarding them earlier and my street arabs had advised me of an inn where they were reported to meet their _employer_. I use that term loosely of course. The man is from the orient and is said to be a _facilitator_. I do believe your own men have been keeping an eye on him as well.” Watson looked towards Mycroft, but the man neither denied nor accepted. “I was on my way to Whitehall when Wiggins met me. Yesterday, this oriental was reported to have met with another man, a white man. Money had changed hands. Unfortunately, they couldn’t hear most of it, but there were some bits caught. They mentioned a _wizard_ who was busy elsewhere. And then one term that they repeated twice was _young squirrels_.”

Watson was horrified. He had been right. That had been no accident. But… why squirrels in plural? Didn't young squirrel have meant Quentin? He looked to Mycroft who inclined his head saying, “It isn’t just an individual, Doctor Watson. But a small group.”

Oh! So that meant the countess… he now turned to her and froze at the look in her eye. God help this Oriental should he ever be within the countess’ reach.

Suddenly Holmes asked his brother, “It was before he moved to Baker St. was it?” and Mycroft merely nodded.

God help him from these cryptic statements that passed as conversation among the specie Holmes, thought Watson.

Holmes continued, “I decided we needed a closer acquaintance with our man and paid a visit to his rooms. Unfortunately, he was already dead. The body was still warm. Nothing had been disturbed in the rooms. I then proceeded to conduct my second futile search of the day. Not one single piece of incriminating evidence. Nothing to indicate that the man was anything but an exiled nobleman from the orient.”

Holmes continued, “I sent Mycroft a message then and proceeded to Baker St. hoping to intercept Watson and warn him and thus Anthea. Even then I had no idea that the danger was imminent. I had hoped for more time.” The countess patted his arm as if to assure him he couldn’t be faulted, but Watson knew Holmes saw everything as his personal failure. “Once again I was too late or too early. Watson, I learnt, had not been expected back for lunch and would only be back after he visited his new patient.” He paused then and said, “It was evident that there was a threat against the children and we needed to act in haste and hence I came here next to warn you. Watson, I now suggest that you tell us your tale.”

Doctor Watson quickly recounted the chain of incidents of that afternoon. He concluded saying, “I could not shake off the feeling that it was not an accident but a deliberate attempt at causing harm. The two sounds that I heard could only be pistol shots. I was afraid that if we lingered the danger may increase and hence I urged the driver to make his way back as quickly as was possible.”

The countess smiled at that and commented, “Urged? My dear friend, from the reports it seems you all but commanded my coach-man.” Watson blushed at that. “But once again, I thank you for that. Had you not acted, my children would have faced far greater peril.”

“Doctor Watson, my cousin is correct. You saved the day." Mycroft added. "I am convinced that the reports from Sherlock and you indicate a serious threat. In doing so they intend to distract us from a larger plot. We must plan to prevent any mishap. Anthea my dear, much as it pains me to say, you must withdraw and take the children to the country immediately. Once again I will trust Quentin’s well being in your capable hands.” 

The countess nodded in agreement and said, “We will need to have Grand’Mère Vernet move to our house. I will need you to send along a letter to her urging the same. I suspect she will be quite stubborn about it. Perhaps, Quentin will tilt the balance in our favour.”

“I will stay here and smoke them out. Do alert me if…”

“Mycroft!” The softly spoken word was an admonishment and an assurance in one.

“Of course, my dear. You know far better.”

“I will keep him safe.”

Mycroft cleared his throat and proceeded, “I will need the two of you here. Sherlock, do you intend to continue to remain  _away_? I thought not. Though we will keep your _reappearance_ low-key. Doctor Watson I think we may need you to take a leave of absence from your practice, please.”

Watson nodded, “Mr. Holmes, does Doctor Hooper have a regular practice or does she tend only to you and your associates?”

Mycroft raised his brow but answered without hesitation, “The latter, Doctor Watson.”

“Excellent! Would it be possible that for the next few days, until the matter is cleared, you may call upon me in her stead? If she is agreeable then I suggest that she accompany my lady and the children. It will serve two purposes. The first, that she is already familiar with Mrs. Maynard’s case without knowing the patient’s identity. I can trust her to continue with my methods and in fact, given her intelligence, improve upon them. I am extremely apprehensive about leaving my patient right now. And honestly I am not sure that Mrs. Maynard will take to Doctor Hooper as well. But if I have to trust anyone else then it would be her. We have just begun to see some results and I do not want to risk losing the progress. I will of course correspond regularly with her and if permitted visit. Second, from what I have seen of her, she does not shy of new experiences and she has an excellent head in case of emergencies and hence will be an asset should any crisis arise.” He paused then looking to Mycroft and the Countess.

Mycroft’s brow had continued to climb but he had held his tongue so far. Now he looked faintly bemused as he said, “Very well, Doctor Watson. I will send a message requesting her. Should she agree, I will inform you and you may spend tomorrow morning to pass on the relevant case history to her that shall be requisite for the care and treatment of your patient." Turning to his cousin he smiled, "Anthea my dear, you are right about the commandeering. This is no request.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * A shoutout to glowbunny - When we last spoke I didn’t think I would do it but now suddenly Molly is the one looking after Mrs. M. Oh well.
>   * Yes, Holmes admired Adler. ACD is quite clear about that.
>   * I hope it wasn't too disappointing to find that squirrel isn't just Mycroft. 
>   * Boswell in case you didn't know refers to James Boswell, the biographer and diarist, who authored the much acclaimed biography of Samuel Johnson. His surname has become a byword for a constant companion and observer, especially one who records those observations in print. In A Scandal in Bohemia, ACD's Holmes famously says of Dr. Watson, "I am lost without my Boswell." (which was then reworded in BBC as "lost without my blogger") https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Boswell
>   * Oriental has been used to refer to things in the Eastern hemisphere for a long time. It is not meant to be derisive at all.
>   * Yes, Mycroft and Sherlock love talking cryptically. So Mycroft answers Watson's unasked question about the squirrel. In turn Sherlock deduces that Watson knows about the term and that he had met Mycroft prior to moving in with him.
>   * As you can see Mycroft does care about Quentin's well being. The next chapter will explain a bit more of the circumstances.
> 

> 
> The story is finally approaching the end. But there are quite a few chapters left. Hopefully the mystery won't be too tame and I am able to give at least a few thrills to you all before I say finis. Wish me luck!


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realised after posting the previous chapter that I had made two literary references that I totally forgot to acknowledge.  
> The first is Miss Barkis. The name of course is familiar to fans of Dickens, esp. Oliver Twist: "Barkis is willing." Of course I always change the gender of my characters from the original (like Mr. Eyre) Believe me its always subconsciously done but atleast now I know I do it.  
> The other is the name Vernet for Holmes' grand parents. ACD mentioned, in The Norwood Builder, that one of his grandmothers is the sister of the French artist Vernet. I merely am making it closer saying that their mother was Mlle. Vernet before marriage.  
> In researching for the source of this name, I also came across the mention of the Holmes family being country squires. As per usual I had remembered and used the fact but could not recall the source of that. It too comes from the same story.
> 
> I hope that I haven't left any more of such references unacknowledged. But if I have then I hope I can rely on you all to drop me a note please. I am building this fic on the shoulders of giants and I would hate to have any of them unacknowledged.  
> Thank you.
> 
> Over to the next chapter now.

“And now we need to think how to ferret out the perpetrators and recover the photograph and letters for the King. I am sure we all agree that the two are related. I do wish that you could have stayed in London, Anthea. Your mind works far better at these things.”

Here Holmes added, “For that you only need request the excellent Doctor Watson again, Mycroft. Oh don’t look so surprised. You see, not my whole day was spent in futile pursuits. The one good thing that did occur as a result of my going to Baker St. was that I intercepted a package meant for Watson.” So saying he withdrew a package from between the stack of books he had been holding when he entered.

He handed it to Watson who immediately exclaimed in annoyance, “Holmes! It’s been opened.”

“Evidently, my dear Watson.” Bored reply.

“How many times…?”

“I merely checked to see if there was any treachery.” Innocently concerned.

“And of course you never even glanced at the actual contents of the papers.”

“Just a glance. After all, the envelope is addressed in a woman’s hand.” Sly smirking.

“It could have been _private_.”

“Surely not from me, Watson." Hurt look. "And look it has something interesting. Go on then, disembowel it before my sibling expires of curiosity.” Self-satisfied and obnoxious.

“You are a bloody menace. My apologies, my lady, I...”

"Please, Doctor. No offence taken. Ignore my bloody cousin and open it. I too am curious."

Watson slid the papers out. There was a slim bundle of papers tied together along with a neatly folded sheet. He picked the sheet first. Scanned directly to the bottom to know the sender and startled darting a glance at Holmes who merely lifted his brow. Taking a deep breath he started reading aloud.

> _My Dear Doctor John H. Watson_
> 
> _I think the best resource for us now is flight; so our mutual friend will find the nest empty when he calls to-morrow._
> 
> _However, I now find myself reluctant to leave without helping you. You really did it very well. You took me in completely. So here are the papers that were hidden behind in the cabinet of the photograph. I discovered them after the very first attack, and have long suspected that they are the true cause of my persecution._
> 
> _As to the photograph and letters, I will retain them only as a safeguard, and to preserve a weapon which will always secure me and mine, from any steps which your client might take in the future._
> 
> _I remain, dear Dr. Watson,_
> 
> _Very truly yours,_
> 
> _IRENE ADLER._

 

Watson wasn’t sure how to react. Thankfully, Holmes was silent and hadn't made a single remark to tease him. So he simply picked the bundle next and undid the twine holding them. The largest sheet, folded in four, seemed like a map but with no words on it save some crosses and arrows at a few places. Then there were three smaller sheets of paper with curious markings on them. They consisted of a number of absurd little figures of dancing men across the paper. The markings were innocuous and seemed like a child’s scribble. However, spending all this time with Holmes had made the doctor wiser to such seemingly innocent tools. He passed them over to his friend.

*****

It was a code and they soon realised that it would not be an easy one to break. So Holmes and the countess were tasked with breaking it. He quickly made meticulous copies of all four sheets for her. In the mean time, Mycroft assumed the responsibility of tracing the men suspected of involvement. Holmes said he would ask his irregulars to help Mycroft. They dispersed then. Mycroft was the first to leave in order to meet Quentin - _‘before the lad nods off_ ’. Followed immediately by Holmes who resumed his guise and assured Watson that he would join him at their lodgings the next morning. Finally, it was the Doctor and the countess.

“My lady, a quick word please. It is regarding Mrs. Maynard.”

“Of course, Doctor.”

“As you said, she has indeed made some progress. I have been thinking. You see, while she never speaks or reacts in anyway during my visits, she does keenly observe me. She first showed some reaction yesterday when she thought Master Holmes was in danger, from me. As you know he kept us company while I visited her. At some point he sat close by my side. I did not consciously do anything that would alarm her but she immediately located herself in the same spot that she was sitting today. It seemed to me, and this is only a supposition on my part, that while she was scared to be too close to me, she was wary of any harm that I may do to the child and hence, came closer to protect him. Once again today, she was already seated at the same spot with Master Quentin on her side, no doubt anticipating a repeat of yesterday. When she saw the children were scared she was initially frozen. But at my urging she did hold them close, and now has elected to be in their company. In short, she seems to react to any signs of danger to the children. This is a good sign. It can also perhaps be the path to treating her condition. I urge you to take her help in protecting your children. She is far from mentally unstable. Merely scared. I prescribe giving her a visible and obviously expressed responsibility towards their protection as a treatment.”

The countess looked on steadily and then inclined her head. “It shall be as you say, Doctor. And thank you for suggesting Doctor Hooper as a substitute. Though I do hope you will visit us. _Often and soon_. Consider this a standing invitation for _all times_. It’s just a day’s journey and you will always be welcome to stay. My father-in-law served in the cavalry and he would love to meet you.”

“Thank you.” He then took his leave, wishing the countess a safe journey and promising her that he would always be available at a moment’s notice should she send word.

Doctor Watson made his way to the front door of the house. He collected his walking stick, hat and coat from the footman, while the butler asked if he should call a cab, apologising that he hadn’t already done so. Watson assured him that was unnecessary and that he needed to walk for sometime to gather his thoughts anyway. Dusk had gathered as the Doctor stepped to the kerb. After a moment’s hesitation he decided that he would head back home. He could request a cold supper from Mrs. Hudson and get to bed early for a change. No saying what the following days held especially since his fellow lodger would be back tomorrow. He had barely placed his hat on his head when the door behind him opened again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course Sherlock opens private mail all the time.
> 
> Yes, Adler wrote to Watson. Yes, she knows that she can rely on him better. Plus, it will delay their pursuing her cos he will first go to the Holmeses then they will take action. And yes she is taunting Sherlock when she says mutual friend. (I am not sure if it was also to get Mycroft Holmes jealous :D:D:D)  
> Yes, she will say that being nice to anyone is a form of manipulation and gently accuse Watson of doing so.  
> In my head canon, she found these papers long ago. Since a few measly letters and a photograph weren't really worth killing her for. She isn't sure who she can trust with them and finds Watson ultimately. I for one wouldn't blame her for fleeing now since theres no reason for her to believe that the King (or even Mycroft) wouldn't have her killed for knowing of these.
> 
> Yes, those dancing figures are form the "Adventure of the Dancing Men" by ACD. But I'm loathe to make it so simple so I have added a map and I plan on pulling Jules Verne along for the ride (yes yes you clever beings it will be Journey to the Centre of the Earth)
> 
> Reg. Mrs. Maynard's actions: I have seen a friend with a phobia (of something) react thus. She can't be in the presence of the thing that she is afraid of- no matter what. She actually had a panic attack once because some effing idiot forcibly brought that thing in her presence and insisted that her phobia was ridiculous and if she just spent some time with the object of her fear she would realise it. She is that afraid.  
> BUT this one time she was inadvertently left alone with a one year old kid in a crib and the thing in the same room. She spent an entire thirty minutes standing guard as a shield between the thing and the child till the mother 'rescued' them both.  
> So yeah, it might not always be apparent, but courage takes different forms.
> 
> As to who just opened the door after the Doctor... I'll give you one guess :)
> 
> Have a lovely weekend!


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We can be _this_ only in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one doesn't have any Mycroft thumping but hopefully something equally interesting that some of you have asked me about: Quentin Aneirin Scott Holmes.

Doctor Watson turned to see Mycroft Holmes stepping out without a hat or a coat, “Wait a moment please, Doctor Watson. The carriage is being brought around.” Then he ducked back inside. Watson stood frozen for a moment as if he had seen an apparition. His thoughts scrambled to- _I shouldn’t be here, waiting. I will make an excuse and walk alone._ But of course he didn’t and so a few moments later both the carriage and Mycroft had joined him. The latter now clad appropriately and urging him to precede. Once the carriage was on it's way they merely sat in silence. The doctor was lost in his thoughts.

_Just two days back I threw you out of my rooms. I was terribly upset with you and subsequently with myself for losing my control so badly. Every time I want to ask you, you seem to deflect my questions._

Till the silence was suddenly broken as Mycroft started to speak. “My cousin’s town carriage will need a few minor repairs as the spoke of one wheel has cracked, else you would have been offered the use of it.”

_You are married. Who is she? Are you happy together?_

“The man must have been a crack shot" 

_What did **that night** mean to you? Was I alone in those moments? How can I still be angry with you and yet crave such moments? Why do I? _

"I am glad I caught up with you in time.”

Watson was surprised enough to protest, “Really, Mr. Holmes, you should not have bothered. Baker Street is rather out of your way.”

“It’s not a bother, Doctor. Didn’t you hear? You are a friend of the family now.”

_You too called me a friend once. I shouldn’t have read so much into it._

“That honour alone is all I need, Mr. Holmes.”

“Wait till you join us for Christmas in the country, you won’t think so then.” Mycroft chuckled. And it felt a bit contrived. As if he was trying too hard.

Watson couldn’t help look closely at him. With a start he realised that the whole afternoon he had avoided just that. He looked like someone who hadn’t slept in a while and felt a pang of guilt. But he immediately admonished himself that couldn't be the case. The strain of having his child and family threatened would do that to any man.

“I hope, Doctor, you will keep your pistol with you at all times from now on. I suspect that you may be a target as well. If not, then perhaps it may come in handy whilst protecting the others. Though I do hope this is the last we see of that.”

Watson merely murmured in agreement.

_Why is your son with your cousin? He seems well loved. But are you as distant with him as you are with others? With me?_

“I hope Master Quentin wasn’t too shaken by today. He was rather quiet when I was trying to soothe his cousins.”

“He is quite fine. Thank you for asking.” There was a lengthy silence and Watson was startled when suddenly Mycroft spoke again.

“He has always seen Anthea as his mother and the twins as his siblings. His mother died before his first birthday. I have always been away at work. My cousin took over his care almost immediately. She had just married and I worried that it wouldn’t be prudent. But the late Earl, her husband concurred. He was far more interested in the land than his seat in the House of Lords and so he, unlike me, preferred the country. He insisted. And of course the country is the best place for children. At first, there were others to take care of him as well. But my parents passed away in the intervening years, and later the Earl." Mycroft was answering his unasked questions. At least a few of them.

"He has almost always lived with her. It is well that Quentin has his cousins, for they are as close as siblings and keep him from being lonely. It is all to my cousin’s credit that he has grown into such a fine young man. She loves the three equally. Whilst I find myself forever favouring him over the twins.”

He said the last with a self-deprecating smile and Watson realised that this personal confession was Mycroft Holmes' way of conceding that they were friends. Something loosened in his breast then.

“Quentin’s tutor needed to leave for a short period and so I invited the three to the city, seeing as the countess was here already. I had hoped this would be a good holiday for him, away from the estate. But now it has been cut short and my cousin…”

“And this is where she would cut in sternly and say, _Mycroft._ ”

Surprisingly, he laughed then. “Yes, she never stands for any nonsense. She can even _mother_ Sherlock. Use that knowledge as you will.” His eyes were twinkling and just like that _Mr. Scott_ was back.

Silence would be unbearable at this point. Especially after having called him Mycroft. So Watson scrambled to prevent it and hoped to keep those eyes twinkling, “Quentin is a very bright boy. I understand he wants to be a scientist, perhaps even a detective. Though, when he _grows up_ he will do whatever it is that _you_ do.” His tone was teasingly sombre and he pulled out another chuckle. And this time it wasn’t contrived.

“Can you believe that my brother spends less time with him than I do, but is emulated and aspired to far more?” That sardonic smile now had deviltry in it.

“Actually no. All the time I spent with him, Master Quentin Holmes strived to be a miniature facsimile of a _minor official in the government_. With the most courteous mien, an impeccable posture, very polite manners and the charm of a courtier.”

Damn! Was _he_ flirting now? And while he couldn’t be sure but was Mycroft blushing? So Watson spurred on with a smile, “He did of course skilfully pull out from me a very vivid and horrifyingly grisly description of Doctor Jenner’s methods to prove the effects of vaccination that I strived to make as disgustingly ghastly as possible.” Then Captain Watson slowly leaned in to rest his elbows on his knees and threw caution to the winds as he said, “I am not sure whom I find more charming, the civil servant or the imp.” Yes, he was flirting. Of course, there was no pretence that it was the son he was talking about rather than the father. And that was most definitely a lovely rosy stain on those cheeks and ears.

Why is it that they could be _this_ _way_ only in the dark?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes: Mycroft rushed out hatless to stop Watson and yes he toned down his haughtiness to get Watson to sit in the carriage before him and yes I have a weakness for nervous Mycroft.  
> And yes poor Watson is a mess. Really who wouldn't be after the object of his affections (god I love that phrase) blew hot and cold the way MH does.  
> Yes, Mycroft dropped a hint that he'd like to spend Xmas with JW that got totally ignored.
> 
> Quentin- I hope I've answered some of the questions at least.
> 
> And yes, Watson calling him by his first name is more than flirtation in those times. Its practically a confession!


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cowardly foes and courageous friends

Of course, Watson had terrible luck when it came to trysts in the dark with strangers (or near strangers). The carriage had slowed to a stop and Mycroft’s very well trained staff had promptly pulled open the door and the steps. Or perhaps it simply had been a benevolence granted by the-gods-of-foolish-Doctors who succumbed to such strangers and then compounded their folly with clumsy flirtation. Doctor Watson groaned into his pillow and, not for the first time, wished himself back in Afghanistan getting shot at by the Ghazis. Instead of the incident with the carriage that afternoon and the subsequent revelations after it or even Holmes’ dramatic return, he was obsessed with a ridiculous conversation that was more than one sided. Within two days, he had gone from throwing out the gent from his rooms to batting his eyelashes at him. He was surely getting closer to a simpering miss out of a penny dreadful.

He barely slept and was up early. He decided to commence his day immediately and send in a note to his senior partner, excusing himself for the next few days and extending a sincere apology. The man really was a saint. He would have to find a way to thank him properly. He hoped the generous remuneration that the Countess’ man-of-affairs had informed him about would somewhat compensate for his absence. He did not want to be without employment ever again.

When Holmes ‘returned’ to their lodgings at eight in the morning, the doctor was already washed and dressed and on his first cup of tea. Mercifully the detective merely raised his eyebrow and refrained from any comment even though he assuredly had read the signs of a restless night on his friend’s countenance. Holmes retreated to his room and soon the servants followed carrying hot water. Another half-hour and the room was once again permeated with the familiar smell of pipe tobacco and Holmes was resting, in his house-coat, with his feet on the table, starting on the deciphering of the papers Miss Adler had sent and alternately looking at the back pages of the newspaper held by the doctor, reading the and criticising every printed article and insulting it’s writer’s intelligence.

As she brought up their breakfast the maid handed in a note from the countess for Watson. _Doctor M.K. Hooper had agreed to go with them and she would be visiting their rooms at ten o’clock that morning. Could Doctor Watson please spare some time and spend it discussing Mrs. M’s case with her? Kindest regards &c._

Watson was delighted to meet Doctor Hooper once again. She had a sharp mind and her queries and comments satisfied him that she was the best choice under the circumstances. She even challenged some of his hypotheses and promised to think about it and send in her observations in the coming days that could confirm or refute them. Though her natural reticence returned whenever Holmes was in the room and Watson mused if the lady wasn’t somewhat attracted to his ascetic friend. Given Holmes' broad views on most members of the opposite sex he truly hoped not. She left within an hour, promising him to send regular updates that were as detailed as possible.

As usual Holmes was insufferable throughout. He had barely taken notice of Doctor Hooper past a narrow eyed stare and a nod to her initial greeting. It was a mercy that they were already acquainted and Watson did not have to apologise for Holmes being… well Holmes. He had been muttering to himself, walking in and out of the room, banging things around and generally being a distractive nuisance. In the midst of all this, one of the street urchins had come up with a message for him that had simply made him more disgruntled (if at all that was possible). It was slowly revealed to Watson that his fellow lodger had been trying to decode the messages from Miss Adler’s packet and was having no success.

He settled himself to studying the last of the papers he had borrowed from the library. He would return them that afternoon. He finished with the papers and had a solitary lunch, since Holmes refused food. He wrote out a few things he wanted to Doctor Hooper to try with Mrs. M, along with a few suggestions for the overall handling of the treatment. Then, he picked the papers and decided to return them.

*****

He was returning from the library where he had unsuccessfully perused the shelves again to see if any more pertinent literature could be found. Dusk was beginning to fall and he decided to gambol along before turning in. He seldom found himself on this side of the town and he needed some time to think. He was a patient man. His professions had long instilled in him the need to wait for the right time. But he was also a man of action. He could be still and content beside hospital beds or on enemy lines, but the first wagonload of bodies being brought in spurred him to action, the first canon fired would have him chafing to draw his weapon. And yesterday’s incident had been just that. The enemy had fired its first shot. But instead of being called to arms as would happen in an open battle, he had been asked to lie low and wait for a signal. The pistol in his pocket suddenly felt heavy. He told himself that it was inevitable. This wasn’t an open war. This cloak and dagger stuff was what happened in _civilised_ cities. But he still found himself restless. After a very long time he once again found himself wondering if indeed he no longer fit.

So immersed was he in his thoughts that he had already crossed the entrance to a cul-de-sac bordering a private garden, before he registered the voice. He stopped a few feet away and softly made his way back.

“…and I truly hope you don’t ever repeat this mistake, Trevelyan.” The voice was deadly cold. But Watson had been right. The voice belonged to Mycroft Holmes and so did the hand that was pressing the tip of his swordstick into a man’s throat. A thin trickle of blood from the point wended its way to the man’s pristine collar. The man was rather well dressed. A toff, Watson decided, noting his well-manicured hands, which he held up and away from his body, indicating surrender. His head was uncovered and his sneering yet anxious face was coated in beads of sweat. Further ahead, another man, dressed in the livery of a servant, slowly got up from the ground. There was an ugly welt across is face, his nose was bleeding and his lip was cut. The first man flicked his hand, ostensibly to stop the servant from advancing towards Mycroft.

“Quite wise, my lord,” continued the level icy tone. “I wouldn’t have stayed my hand a second time. I’m sure you’d rather your mastiff lived. Now, have I made myself clear?”

It was then that the well-dressed toff noticed the doctor. His face distorted further into a vehement mask of disdain as he snarled at the onlooker. Mycroft barely glanced over his shoulder before returning to the man, “Answer me now. Do you understand?”

The man didn’t bother to mask his animosity as he looked back upon his adversary. He simply nodded. Mycroft took away his stick and turned away, walking towards the street without a glance to his friend. Watson wasn’t sure if his company would be welcome and turned around to get back to the street. A sudden sound and a snarl of rage made him turn back to the entrance. The man had attacked Mycroft from behind and even now was landing another punch to his head. Without thinking, Watson grabbed Mycroft by his coat and hauled him away. He then pushed him behind his body, shielding him as he bent forward and jammed his good shoulder into the nobleman’s guts. Fortunately, the servant was still at a distance or they would have been done for. Watson whipped out his pistol, cocked it one handed and held it out with a steady hand.

“Stay as you are.” He ordered.

Not taking his eyes off either of them, he pushed back, herding out Mycroft without looking taking his eyes off the men. Mycroft seemed disoriented by the knocks to his head and stumbled a bit. Once out in the street, Watson quickly dragged him across to the other side where the shutters of a grocer’s shop had already been closed. And then some yards further down. There were no signs of pursuit, so he stopped them beneath a gaslight. There was blood streaming down Mycroft’s face, possibly from a wound to the temple and he was still not sure on his feet. Fortunately, they hadn’t attracted any undue attention. He wiped his face, rolled up the handkerchief and jammed it tight with the help of his own hat to press the wound and hide the worst of the injuries. Then he hauled him up by his shoulder and began slowly walking down. Luck was on his side and soon he had pulled Mycroft into a hansom and given the cabbie his address.

He spent the entire ride, cradling his head against his chest and urging Mycroft to stay awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh well as I was discussing with n_a we both love scenes where Mycroft gets whumped and roughed up (her words)  
> I was looking at the plot outline that I had put for the second half of this chapter, and this is what it reads: Mycroft has a showdown but actually gets bashed up instead, fortunately the good doctor is around.  
> Question- have him recuperate in 221B or his townhouse? Decide before you start writing.  
> Research concussion.  
> So yup I wrote it out but not before Mycroft himself gets to throw a few punches, delivers a threat and looks deadly suave while doing it all.
> 
> Yes, we are used to Sherlock diving straight away into any mystery and ignoring everything around him but I think initially he isn't sure if the mystery is going to be tough. And I suspect he thinks its simply going to be another case of a royal being loony enough to correspond in code simply for the heck of it.
> 
> I've christened Molly- Margarate Katherine.
> 
> I think penny dreadfuls were already popular by then but please correct me if that isn't so. Or forgive the gaffe and pretend its is so.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Baker Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay in posting folks. Since its almost time to post the second chapter of the week I am posting two chapters in one go.  
> Doesn't excuse you from commenting on each of them separately though ;-)  
> Please please do. That makes me super happy.

It wasn’t until they were at Baker St. (the cabbie having fled upon seeing all the blood) and he faced the seventeen steps, with a near unconscious much taller man in his arms, that he realised he needed help. He closed the front door behind himself and then hollered for help. As it was, Mrs. Hudson bustled out first. She took in a sharp breath and rushed up calling out for Mr. Holmes. Thank the Lord! Holmes was home. The two wrestled Mycroft up the stairs. “My room, Watson. Mrs. Hudson, do ask that the fire be stoked higher, please.”

Watson added his instructions, “Mrs. Hudson, send up some bandages, towels, and hot water, and have them bring my valise from upstairs, please.”

Between them, they stripped Mycroft to his underlinen. The maid brought in fresh towels and hot water. Watson washed his hands carefully with soap and examined and cleaned the wounds. The one above his right ear was badly swollen but it was the second one nearer the crown, received on hitting the wall, that was bleeding and would require stitches. Fortunately he seemed to have regained his balance and was sitting upright on his own. He was already quite coherent. Once he had heated the needle well, Watson proceeded to stitch the wound. He had had to snip of a bit of hair to clear the area. Holmes proved an able assistant. Even though it was a repeat of the first time and Mycroft did not flinch at all, Watson knew the man was in considerable pain and was very relieved when he was finished bandaging the wound. Watson disposed of the tools and the maid took away the basin, rags, et al. Refusing all assistance, Mycroft lay down against the pillows. Watson could see that being ornery patients was a Holmesian trait.

Holmes poured Mycroft some water to drink and then took a chair by the bedside.

“I would have you stay awake for some time, Mr. Holmes. I need to keep an eye on your condition. I hope you don’t feel any nausea but there is a basin right beside you. A couple of hours and then you should be able to sleep. I will prepare a sleeping draught if required. In the mean while, please rest quietly. I will be back soon. Holmes, see to it that he doesn’t go to sleep, please.”

His coat was in a bad shape. The front was ruined. His cuffs were bloodied. He had had so many adrenaline fuelling incidents in the past twenty-four hours that he wondered if he had lost the ability to keep calm under stress. Though he hadn’t let it show, he knew he had panicked yesterday and probably acted like a mother hen. Today was no better. He had held Mycroft close and kept up an incessant babble to keep him awake. Even now the memory of his pale face with streaks of blood was scary. He refused to assign his out of proportion reactions to the fact that he had a personal bond with those under fire. He taunted himself that just a few hours back he had wondered whether he fit at all in this _civilised_ world.

Like a veteran soldier, he was cleaned and dressed shortly and back in the living room. There was a glass filled out, resting on the table, no doubt on Holmes’ orders. He smiled and took it. He had no compunction in admitting that he had been scared. Still was. Injuries to the cranium could take a turn for the worse at any time. A knock on the door brought Holmes out of the room. Tim stepped in and doffed his hat. “You ‘ave an errand for me, Mr. ‘Olmes, sir?”

“Yes, Tim. Please take a note for me, will you.” He quickly scribbled a note and slid it into an envelope sealing it and handing it to Tim. “Hand it over to Mr. Paver at that address. Only to him and no other. You are to wait for an answer. If he isn’t available, ask that you be allowed to wait for him. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And here’s a shilling for your efforts.”

The boy smiled widely and clattered down the steps. Holmes retreated into his room.

Holmes insisted that he would sit beside Mycroft and that Watson was to eat and rest. Watson knew he wouldn’t be any use to his patient if he himself were fatigued. Further, he suspected that Mycroft wouldn’t take kindly to him hovering. After the two hours he had mandated lapsed. Doctor Watson went back to check on his patient once more. Mycroft was sitting up in his bed, surprisingly alert, albeit rather pale. The dizziness hadn’t returned. He did have a slight headache accompanied by a throbbing owing to the two wounds. But there had been no nausea and no other alarming symptoms. With every passing minute Watson’s relief mounted. Watson urged him to take some soup and watered wine and Mycroft readily complied.

Tim had returned within an hour with a bag of items from the ever-efficient Paver. Now, Holmes cocked a mocking brow at his brother as he laid out a fine lawn nightshirt, a night cap, warm slippers and a housecoat. He then asked in the most sarcastic tones if his _dear brother_ could possibly manage without a valet for one night. Watson couldn’t hear Mycroft’s response but it must have been sufficiently stinging since Holmes walked out smiling like a lunatic but stood like a sentinel with his back to the door. Watson shook his head at what passed for affection between the Holmeses and refrained from speech.

However, Holmes caught his expression and promptly seated himself right opposite the doctor, proclaiming, “You are as bad as each other, Watson.”

A startled Watson wondered what he was talking about.

“When you were injured Mycroft insisted on taking you to his house and keeping you there for the night, knowing fully well that you could have been taken care of here as well. His reasons for doing so were perfectly ridiculous. And now I fail to understand why you did not take him to his town-house full of servants, instead of bringing him to your bachelors’ accommodations. As I said- as bad as the other.” With this pronouncement, Holmes took himself off and once again buried himself in de-ciphering the messages.

Doctor Watson had to admit to himself that the thought of taking Mycroft Holmes anywhere else hadn’t even occurred to him.

He had simply brought Mycroft to the one place that was at once familiar, comforting and safe for himself, as he had wanted Mycroft to be. He had simply brought Mycroft to the one place that was at once familiar, comforting and safe for himself, as he had wanted Mycroft to be. He hoped that Holmes hadn’t deduced the true reason for his heated cheeks and quickly escaped to his chair and pulled up a journal.

*****

He was surprised how tired he felt. True that the enteric fever had left him much worse than his earlier self (or was it simply age catching up) also true that the last few days since his own concussion hadn’t all been restful. But ever since he had found work again and had moved in at 221b he had felt himself once more. His appetite was hearty again (Holmes called it soldier’s gluttony) and barring his injured shoulder and slight limp he could now keep up with Holmes on any chase in all terrains within their city and sometimes the countryside. He had even been boxing with Holmes regularly (it helped him regain his balance and it kept Holmes’ demons at bay).

Mycroft called out to Holmes saying he was done. But Watson motioned to him and instead knocked once and walked in to see the man tucked inside the blankets. No fever so far, no nausea, no dizziness, the colour was still troubling though. He made a quick examination of the dressing. Thankfully the bandages weren’t stained. He assured Mycroft that he could now sleep and offered to give him some powders. The offer was once again politely declined.

He assured Mycroft that one of them would always be right outside should he need them. They would make sure to check on him through the night. Mycroft protested that there was no need since he was showing no signs of concussion and was going to sleep through it all. He brushed aside all protests, reminding him politely of who the trained physician in the room was. He then kneeled and banked the fire for the night. As he turned back he saw that Mycroft was already asleep. The man had been acting upon the typical Holmesian ideas of stoicism which seemingly required denying any human need for rest or recuperation.

It was around ten when the doctor gave up and decided to retire to bed. Holmes had declared that he wouldn’t sleep anyways, and so he would keep an eye on ‘the patient’. He rapidly recited all that the doctor was about to instruct him of with regards to his vigil. Watson decided to take a last look before retiring.

He crossed to the bed softly and turned up the bedside lamp slightly. He bent closer and peered carefully to observe any signs of discomfort or unconsciousness but Mycroft was breathing regularly and but for his pallor seemed fine. He lay perfectly straight on his back; the covers were drawn to his armpits; the arms rested gracefully on top; the unbuttoned sleeves had ridden up and there was a fine dusting of hair from knuckles all the way to the elbow. The arms themselves were lithe. They recalled to him the bare expanse of a back that he had once been privileged to see. He was tempted to run his fingers along them, to see how those hairs felt. Would that he could press his lips to those long fingers and feel them curl into his palm in reaction. Or even that soft mouth slightly open in slumber, the slightly upturned ends beckoning, the dip below the lower one, the cleft of the chin enticing. But that way laid madness. He jerked away, impatient with himself. As he unbent, his patient woke up with a startle.

The doctor laid a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder and said softly, “Hush, it just me. John Watson. Sorry I disturbed you.”

Mycroft blinked and smiled an unusual soft disarming smile, “Oh doctor, you didn’t wake me. It was just a silly nightmare. And before you ask, no, it was not about earlier today at all or any such thing. Like I said, it’s something rather silly.”

Watson simply kept his hand at the shoulder and looked on at his patient.

Mycroft finally sighed and said, “Sherlock is right you know. You are rather tenacious. No need to raise your brow. He was relating to me how you refuse to help him with his _seven per cent solution_. Of course he did use a vastly different term.”

Watson smiled at that but did not budge. Another sigh emanated, “Really doctor. It’s nothing.”

“Let me button your sleeves.”

Mycroft held out one hand and the other. The childlike gesture tugged further on Watson’s weakening resolve. He was hard put not to linger at is task. He swallowed and let go.

“Oh! Well. It’s something I have only occasionally. But it is almost always the same. I dream that I am suddenly falling--- No context. No scenario. No depth of how far, or reason why. It simply happens. And within a few moments I find myself awake. That is all. Its not even scary anymore. I merely startle and go to sleep again.”

“How long have you had it?”

“Years.”

“Has it been recurring frequently recently?”

“Not at all.”

“Do you want me to give you a sleeping draught?”

“No, doctor. I truly do fall right back to sleep.”

Watson turned down the lamp and seated himself on the chair that Holmes had occupied earlier.

“I told you doctor. There is no need to linger. I am feeling rather better now. I shall sleep like a log.”

“Then I have only a few moments of wait, don’t I? Please ignore my presence, Mr. Holmes.”

With a theatrical sigh that would have done his younger sibling proud, Mycroft closed his eyes. However, minutes passed and still his breathing rhythm remained unchanged and he finally opened his eyes with a smile. “I really cannot ignore your presence.”

Watson smiled back, “In that case, I will have to leave. Please call if you can’t sleep soon and do abstain from thinking.”

“I promise.”

Resigned, Watson heaved himself from the chair. “You really should stop getting attacked so regularly.”

“Would you believe that the rate has accelerated since I met you?”

“You forget that I have seen your scars.”

“Yes. Yes you have. Haven’t you.”

“…”

It was true. They could find _this_ , whatever it was, only in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just read DancingGrimm's [ The Tale of Jack ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/484316/chapters/843164)  
> It's not Johnlock or Jooster or even 00Q which are the only verse's I usually haunt. It is the retelling of Jack and the Beanstalk and sistah- is. it. good. How do you all get so creative. (someday Bee someday)  
> In short, I seriously recommend it.  
> ___________
> 
> Lister had made those claims regarding sterilisation and reducing infection but it took some time for everyone to get on board. But of course Doctor Watson has heeded them. He washes his hands before and after with soap and heats his needle on a flame, cools it and then threads it. Oh come now don't tell me you have forgotten we are talking about an era where even the nobility didn't bathe every day. 
> 
> Ok so where are we in the story? Oh yeah. Poor Mycroft. I can be rather beastly to him can't I. But how else can I get these two idiots to _talk_?  
>  Sorry Mich but I had already written out this chapter before I shared my notes to self last time. So I bunged poor MH at Baker St. Practicality always loses to ruses-to-get-Mycroft-at-least-half-dressed-in-John's-presence or vice-versa.
> 
> Oliveria asked for Sherlock in a bedsheet and I instead gave her Mycroft! Sorry about only getting it 50% right.
> 
> Yes, I do believe that whatever their differences, the two siblings would definitely care for each other enough for Sherlock to sit up all night with his brother. 
> 
> And yeah still nowhere near smut. Heck these two aren't even kissing yet!


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pig-headed Holmeses.

Watson woke after a surprisingly sound sleep. He quickly washed, shaved and dressed himself with his usual efficacy and stepped into the sitting room. He really wanted a bath but decided he would have one later if the day permitted.

He was taken aback to see Mycroft sitting with a cup of tea. He looked shaved and dressed as well. There was a plate with a half eaten toast and an empty cup beside him. Clearly he had been up and at work for some time now and Watson couldn’t help being more than a little miffed at the display of this callous attitude towards his well-being. The bloody man had been seriously injured less than twenty-four hours ago and the least he could have done is to stay in bed till he… till the doctor allowed. And he had the temerity to suggest that Watson was stubborn. Damn the pig-headedness of all Holmeses.

He held on to his temper as Mycroft greeted him and introduced him to his associate. The man too had an empty cup by his side and a stack of papers in his hand that he was marking with notes as they spoke. Surely, he had been there for quite some time then. He was young and seemed affable and non-descript. Someone you wouldn’t remember later. He had the unassuming name of Williams. Watson supposed that must be a valuable quality if one served in Mycroft Holmes’ offices. He barely heard the man’s name and Mycroft’s formally worded apology for having ‘taken over’ their sitting room. He asked after Mycroft’s health, and touched a hand to his pulse. Then he offered (and they declined) any further refreshments and so he excused himself, since he barely had a hold on his civility. He was determined not to say anything in the presence of Mycroft’s subordinate. And he would be damned if he let the man unsettle him any more than he already had.

Fortunately, for his sanity, it was just then that Holmes came out of his room looking dishevelled and unrested. It was obvious that he hadn’t slept or partaken anything in some time, as was his wont when he was in the midst of a troubling case or an experiment. Watson rang for another tray for the two and had the tremendous satisfaction of wrestling his friend into submitting to tea and breakfast. Getting him to shave, bathe or dress would be well nigh impossible and sleep was out of the question but Watson was damned if would let him starve as well. He glared at Holmes (with the pent up irritation for both siblings) like he was a recalcitrant child and sat with him till he had at least three cups of tea, and enough eggs, bacon, and toast to feed all the urchins of London— Holmes’ words not the doctor’s. The doctor was sure that even one urchin worth his salt could easily eat twice as much and told Holmes as much. That got a grudging smile out of the detective who then quickly changed his tune and petulantly demanded to know how he was expected to get any thinking done with a stuffed stomach.

Watson’s mien softened then and he asked, “No progress on the letters then, Holmes?”

“A bit. I now have the alphabets that each stands for. Oh! I haven’t told you have I? Well each of the figures… Here let me show you.” He rushed to his table and brought back the messages as well as some papers that he had transcribed. “As I was saying, each of these symbols is an alphabet of the English language. Of that I am sure. Further, I have been able to figure which ones they represent.”

“That’s brilliant, Holmes. Amazing, really.”

“Oh well, its no use is it? The whole thing is in a code. The list of alphabets makes no sense in the order that it’s written. Not one of them.” He showed Watson a bunch of papers where he had transliterated the letters in English and he was right. They didn’t make much sense. Here then was the crux of his frustration. Watson was simultaneously amazed at his friends uncommon brilliance at having uncovered the symbols’ meaning -- he couldn’t think of anyone else who would’ve made so much advance in such a short time-- and sympathetic to his desperation, since he was rather familiar with Holmes’ childlike impatience when thwarted in such a manner. The smile had already begun to soften Watson and now he almost felt guilty for being so harsh at breakfast. He promised the detective that he would no longer trouble him but by then he’d already lost his audience. Holmes was deep in study. Frowning at those papers as if they’d delivered a personal insult.

A sudden movement caught Watson’s eyes and he looked across the room to the sight of Mycroft Holmes surging to his feet and— swaying. Williams was quick to leap up and support him. He got Mycroft back in the chair by the time Watson dashed up to him. Mycroft’s forehead and upper lip were damp with sweat and his hands were shaking. Watson asked Williams to rub Mycroft’s fingers while he propped his feet up on the table. He put a pillow behind Mycroft’s back allowing him to sprawl somewhat. He loosened his tie and collar and checked his breathing. He fetched a cold wet rag and wiped Mycroft’s face. He was breathing easier now and his hands were warm and steady. He opened his eyes and Watson wanted to both punch the man and clutch him close.

Watson pre-empted his talking with a stern glare and Mycroft closed his mouth with a put-out snap that rivalled Holmes’. Together with Williams he half undressed Mycroft and put him back in Holmes’ bed. As he pulled back, Williams started speaking. “He hasn’t eaten anything Doctor Watson. Only two cups of tea. Not even sugared. The half-eaten toast you saw was when he took two bites and then abandoned it. I tried making him but…”

“He was quite stubborn and wouldn’t.” Watson finished for him.

Williams simply looked at him pleading. The poor man was obviously loyal to his superior and concerned but had no means to persuade said superior to do anything outside of work. But something in Watson’s demeanour seemed to have opened the floodgates finally. “He sent for me early this morning, sir. Giving me the address and asking for some papers. He usually is able to function on very little sleep so I didn’t think much of it. I knew when I saw him of course. The bandage and his pallor… But he enquired about work and they sent up breakfast and even the younger Mr. Holmes didn’t object and… I am sorry. I should have known bett...”

“That’s enough, Williams,” Mycroft interrupted.

“Mr. Williams you are not at fault at all. Please return to the sitting room. Once I am done with my examination, I will allow you five minutes with _the patient,_ ” Mycroft let out a sound of protest but Watson kept talking in his Captain Watson voice “ ** _IF_** I deem it fit. Other wise, I will ensure that you know when it will be safe for _the patient_ to resume duties partially or fully.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Without a glance at his superior, Williams quickly exited the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh well here's some more spy!Mycroft again. We will see some more of him. I hope it suffices for Erilastorm.
> 
> No, I will not be writing too much about Williams. I have too many characters already.
> 
> Yes, Mycroft is being absolutely silly about his health.
> 
> Yes, even if he sees him through the night, Sherlock will forget to feed his recovering-from-concussion brother in the morning.
> 
> My Watson is being extremely patient under the circumstances I suppose. And yes I know the scene very much looks like what one would do if faced with an ornery spouse but had to bite back words in the presence of a third party. And then one would take out one's frustrations by being extra strict with you best friend instead :D  
> _______________________
> 
> Since there is a no go on smut I leave you with these excellent substitutes. A list of pages I saw during my 'research' which list rather colourful language of Victorian times. Enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> [Naughty Victorian Words](https://ageofsteam.wordpress.com/2009/06/08/naughty-victorian-words/)  
> and  
> [Victorian Vulgarities](http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/the-real/victorian-vulgarities)


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the life of Doctor Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies in advance for the dozens of mistakes in this chapter. This is the first time I'm using my tab to post a chapter and the final editing was excruciating! I guess I am more comfortable in the old world of PCs with massive keyboards (no wonder I prefer Historicals :D)
> 
> This ones still in Baker Street and not much about the case itself. Hopefully that's not too off putting. But my muse refused to write case and I always bow to her.

The stubborn set of his patient’s mouth did not bode well, but Doctor Watson was too angry to care. Honestly, he wished Mycroft would say something and give him an excuse to flay him verbally. In the coldest silence, he set about checking his patient’s vital signs again. Reassured, he rang for the maid and ordered some fresh fruit, dry toast and tea. Then checked and re-dressed the wound. He was almost done when the maid knocked and he politely thanked her for the tray and carefully placed it on Mycroft’s lap. He waited in silence as Mycroft painstakingly finished each bit on the tray. Then, wordlessly, he lifted it off and poured him another cup of tea. Mycroft started to speak but once again Watson stopped him.

“I am going to allow Mr. Williams in for a quarter of an hour. No more. Do not think to oppose me in this, sir. Once he leaves, you will rest for at least three hours.” Watson held up his hand to stop the man from speaking. “Please do not bargain with me or I will give you a dose of laudanum next.”

Mycroft pursed his lips haughtily and continued to give the unruffled and unimpressed doctor a withering glare. But he gave it up after just a few moments. He was too astute a judge of people to think that the doctor would relent. So he tried another tack then. “There have been several breaches in various departments of our government over the last year. Every single one has been detected and contained in time with great difficulty by my associates. There would be a great deal of embarrassment for Her Majesty’s government should the matter be made public. Through the diligence of our agents, we are now close to uncovering the mastermind behind them. Time is of essence. I do not intend to go against anything you say, doctor. I am merely trying to do my duty to my country. Williams has brought in some papers that may lead us to the source of the leak. Please, doctor. I will not move from this bed. But allow us to go through all the papers. As soon as that is done I shall take the rest that you have prescribed.”  
The pleading expression on his face would have melted the heart of a Gorgon. Watson was but human.

However, he was a human who had spent the last so many months in the company of one Sherlock Holmes. Master manipulator. Rearranging his face to one of deepest sympathy, he said, “I understand the call of duty, Mr. Holmes. I will allow Mr. Williams to bring you those papers and you can confer. Given your role in the government, I have full confidence that you are a very intelligent and efficient man and fifteen minutes will more than suffice in instructing your subordinate on how they must proceed in your absence for the next twenty-four hours. After fifteen minutes, Mr. Williams will leave the room, taking the papers et al. with him. Upon his departure, please let me know if you have any other discomfort. Hiding any symptoms now may magnify the ill-effects of your injury in the long-term and will only push your recovery further.”

So saying he exited the room.

After exactly twenty minutes, Williams left the room, hoped that he would be informed should Mr. Holmes require anything, promised to check with the Doctor first when he visited that evening, thanked the Doctor again, bade Doctor Watson a very good day and left the house. Watson knew that it had been Mycroft’s petulant contention that had stretched the time by five extra minutes and he smiled.

His patient was already asleep by the time he checked. And it was closer to four hours when he finally awoke.

The doctor spent those hours putting together some case notes for some of his regular patients that he would send to his partner. He added a few notes regarding the pregnancy of Mrs. T. A doctor from Edinburgh had written a paper in one of the journals he had browsed through and his suggestions were compelling. He called Tim to have a messenger boy take both immediately.

He next compiled his notes for the case, penned some additional notes in the case history of Mrs. Maynard and cleaned his revolver.

The mail arrived late that afternoon; there was a note from the countess for Holmes and another from Doctor Hooper for Watson. Watson had barely gone beyond the greeting of his colleague’s missive when he heard a near growl from Holmes. “There’s always something.” Followed by a dash to his worktable.

By now, Watson knew better than to ask, so he didn’t. He realised easily enough that the countess had sent her cousin some information that she was able to uncover regarding the map recovered by Miss Adler. Any greetings, general news, polite queries, wishes, kind regards, &c. included in her letter, but outside the case, would be lost till Holmes was done with what he considered relevant. So he continued with his own engaging task.

Engaging it was indeed, and pleasant, since Doctor Hooper had sent him a detailed list of her observations of their patient. As a lady she was able to do what he couldn’t and hence has been spending her time entirely in Mrs. Maynard’s presence. She had written that she was no expert and hence would hold off making any diagnosis but instead would— use this opportunity to seek as much information as possible for his sake. Mrs. M continued almost as before but she seemed to prefer having all three children around her whenever possible. Watson thought that it could be a significant change. The doctor wrote that she was allowed to sit in her presence for as long as she wanted. But they had never spoken beyond a murmured greeting, nor was she allowed to sit any closer than what Doctor Watson was reportedly used to. However, she said, Mrs. M wasn’t very happy about the change. It was Doctor Hooper’s conjecture that she preferred Doctor Watson and was hoping he would return soon.

Watson begged to differ, considering that the lady had barely had a week to get used to his presence. He believed that while Doctor Hooper was enjoying the new work, she could not stand to be idly observing without ministering. That she was in fact missing her own vocation of treating and patching up her band of secret agents and as Holmes had confided in him – conducting post-mortem examinations of the victims of suspected foul play, when the cause of death wasn’t easily discernible. He was sure that, social rules permitting, she would swap their current roles without a thought. He hoped that this investigation concluded soon, since it was obvious that, while she was sincerely absorbed in the diagnosis and treatment of their patient, she was ‘chomping at the bit’ to return to more dangerous tasks.  
After his first perusal he started to carefully read through Doctor Hooper’s observations adding notes to the case history in his journal. It was like building a picture puzzle out of pieces when the picture itself was not known. He knew that Mrs. M’s current behaviour was a reflection of whatever horrors she had faced in captivity. Short of a miracle where she herself detailed them, there was no other way than this.

He was pondering over one item over and over again. Mrs. Maynard has taken to frequent baths after the incident. She bathed at least twice each day. Sometimes three. Each time she insisted that the maid change her entire clothing. Barkis had confirmed that the habit had started only after her kidnapping. Further the maid had revealed that Mrs. M insisted that all her under-garments be washed once she changed!

Watson wondered what circumstances would compel such behaviour but could find no explanation. The countess had asserted that, beyond being bound and starved, there were no signs that Mrs. Maynard had suffered physical abuse of any kind, so it could not be that she sought to cleanse herself of another’s touch. He was still pondering when he heard his patient stirring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes Mycroft can be a brat too when he senses a loving caring soul like JW. But he is a bit smarter than Sherlock to simply sulk and pout. He will cajole, reason, (bat his eyes?) to convince his doctor but Captain Watson's seen it all.  
> In my mind, darling Molly is never any good with bedside manners and all. She far prefers badass spies, killers and cadavers. So Mrs. Maynard may or may not be truly missing Dr. Watson.  
> Anthea and Sherlock are collaborating on the decoding of the map and papers if you recall.  
> Picture puzzles or jigsaw puzzles- I have no idea if they existed back then. But I can't think of a better metaphor and so am stubbornly sticking to it. Apologies for any anachronism there.  
> And I'm not sure what exactly is hard hearted about Gorgons but the phrase came to my mind and I wrote it out.  
> The root of Mrs. Maynard's symptoms will atleast be partially explained by the time I end this drama. Promise.  
> But do bear in mind that this is an era where no one, including the privileged who could afford it, bathed daily. Laundry was washed once a week on specific days where either a large number of servants would have to be involved in the washing, drying etc. To have your underlinen changed frequently and washed each time was an extravagance which a mere lady's companion would never ever indulge in.  
> 10/Mar: corrected tact to tack- thanks Lavengro


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Best laid plans or doctors orders...

He found his patient standing, half dressed in waistcoat and tie and pulling on his housecoat. His hair was combed and he had his slippers on. The glass of water beside his bed was now empty. “Good evening Doctor Watson. As you can see, I have been a model patient now for four hours. Can I now be let out on parole, please?”

“Of course, Mr. Holmes. Allow me a quick examination, please.” He ignored the provocative use of parole and checked his patient’s temperature, pulse, etc. Mycroft's pallor was much improved. Then he examined the wound. The skin around it was puffy and red but not suppurating and showed all signs that it had started to heal. The inflammation by the side was nearly gone and Mycroft assured him that it hurt only when touched. Watson gave a smile and said, “It is a bit early for supper so I prescribe some tea and cake for you. You may work with Mr. Williams as soon as he visits. We dine at eight. So that is how long you have. Should it be _essential_ , you may continue your work after dinner for another hour. But no further. Please invite Mr. Williams to join us and I shall let Mrs. Hudson know. Sleep early and through the night, and you may resume your usual routine tomorrow morning.”

Williams was soon at the door and once again the sitting room of 221B Baker St. was taken over by the British government.

Holmes declined dinner. It would be more accurate to say that he continued working furiously and completely ignored Watson’s call for dinner. The three men dined quietly and with a companionable ease that should have surprised Watson had he stopped to think of it. What did surprise him though that all of the month the quickly as if impatient to get on with other things. It happened almost by mutual agreement and without exchanging a word or a sign.

The government officials then resumed poring over the papers Williams had brought along. Watson added Doctor Hooper’s observations to the case history along with some conjectures of his own and some questions and directions for his colleague. He had barely started writing the letter to Doctor Hooper regarding the same when a shout exploded from Holmes.

“Watson!”

Holmes would have torn off his hair if Watson hadn’t intervened. There was a rapid fire of “those are locations” and “should be dates or names” and “haven’t got the foggiest idea” and “criminal idiocy”. As was his wont, Watson rang for some tea with bread and butter for the detective. He then forced Holmes to relinquish his hold on some papers he was grasping hard. It was a testament to Holmes’ tiredness and hunger that he allowed it all. As he sat there mechanically eating and drinking, Watson perused the papers. They were all sets of the English alphabet written out in grids. He was sure that they represented the translations of the messages represented by the dancing figures. Keeping an absentminded eye on Holmes to ensure he finished it all he concentrated on those letters.

Then he frowned and said, “Holmes, have you considered reading them in mirror reflection instead? Not across as you have written but bottom to top? I am sure it says TEN here and this is EAGLE.” He had barely finished his sentence when the papers were out of his hands and Holmes was ‘reading’ them with an increasingly manic delight on his face. He looked up with his characteristic boyish grin, cutched his friend by his arms and let out a loud laugh.

“Watson, my dear man. But you are a conductor of light. I would be lost without you.” Watson shook his head fondly as Holmes continued, “But, there’s not a moment to lose if indeed I am reading this correctly. Mycroft.”

The doctor looked around to see Mycroft Holmes hastily looking away from him to his sibling. Was his face wistful?

Oblivious to it all, Holmes collected all papers and walked to his brother holding them out along with the map “Mycroft, London is under siege.”

And just like that, the game was on.

Like always, it was all a rush of half explanations that Watson had to piece together, deductions thrown at random— this time from three sides: the brothers Holmes, and Williams (who was equally but quietly rather brilliant), plans were made, which he only half understood since the details were really not spelled fully.

There was a brief interlude during which Watson managed to understand that though the names of those involved weren’t clear the hints in those pages were enough for Mycroft. Indeed it seemed that he was pursuing the same set in his on-going investigation of the leaks of governments secrets. The two cases seemed to be linked.

Then Mycroft and Williams were donning their coats and rushing out and Holmes rushed in to get dressed and Watson had to remind him to have a shave first. Soon he was rushing out with Holmes’ telegraph to the countess— Holmes had never been known to write where a telegram would serve, while Holmes sent word to his street-wise network of urchins and from there on they went together to join Mycroft and his associates at a non-descript building near St. Paul’s.

Watson understood that this was Mycroft’s **true** office, the nerve centre of his operations. Not surprisingly Watson's earlier lodgings were exactly midway between Mycroft’s town house and the building. Mycroft hadn’t been dissembling when he said that their paths used to cross daily.  
On their way, Holmes barely spoke and Watson began patching together what little he had understood.

This is what he gathered- There was a plot afoot to destroy public faith in the Queen’s rule through a series of planned dynamite accidents and simultaneously _exposing_ several intelligence leakages. It had started with the latter first. The leakages of official secrets themselves were obviously posed. As Mycroft had said _the_ _squirrel_ has been fighting to hush up those leakages and trace their origin for almost a year. But it seemed that the people behind the plot were hell bent on exposing that in fact the leakages had happened. The information leaked was innocuous enough. They would not damage Britain’s interests per se. But they would be embarrassing to the government both at home and abroad and would seriously diminish the Queen’s standing in the eyes of all.

The conspiracy has been in the making for quite long. Things were now going to be escalated by a series of planned explosions mostly within London. The date and locations were fairly clear from the scripts of the dancing men and the map. It wasn’t clear how or why the King of Bohemia was involved in it all yet. There would be time for that later. What was imperative was to first stop the explosions. The first one was planned not twelve hours later somewhere in Southend-on-Sea. Another was expected not one hour after that in Brighton. They were racing against time.

Mycroft’s office was serving as the command centre. Watson observed the men and saw to his interest that they represented all walks of London society— noblemen and clerks, ex-soldiers and rough looking fellows. The chain of command was complicated amongst them; higher birth did not necessarily guarantee a superior role. But Mycroft was very clearly the supreme commander of the motley crew. It was also notable that Williams knew each and every one of them. Watson wouldn't be surprised if he had personally handpicked and recruited the lot. That the government was willingly (or unwillingly) funding this group and all was above-board was equally clear. Two small teams were formed and dispatched- one to the Liverpool station and another to King’s Cross.

Watson accompanied Holmes to the former to depart for Southend. Williams was headed to the latter. Prior to their departure, Holmes had spent three quarters of an hour briefing the entire lot on every one of his deductions with Mycroft and Williams adding necessary details on likely places to look for the explosive devices. Mycroft and Williams had put together an impressive list in a remarkably short time of the possible perpetrators for each explosion based on the clues in the scripts. It was clear that each explosion was to be carried out under the eye of at least one of what the letters with the dancing men proclaimed as the ‘inner-circle’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tralalalala the first mystery reveals. Yup a series of bombings in London  
> We are aiming for high originality here in case you didn't notice ;-)
> 
> Still working on a tab so please please please let me know of errors big and small.
> 
> Yes the concept of parole did exist, but mostly in penal colonies.
> 
> Now tell me you got the Jules Verne reference about the code. Like I said I like to complicate stuff and Journey to the Centre has got to be my top ten favourites of all times!
> 
> Next, that dig about Holmes and telegrams (which BBC rewrote as text instead) is of course from ACD's the Devil's Foot. While the whole conductor of light is from the Hound of Baskervilles.  
> __________
> 
> Right so Watson tried his best toget Mycroft back hale and hearty and well rested but real life intervened. But atleast he has slept a bit and eaten so that should work right.  
> And yeah the whole wistful thing is possibly true. Cos imagine seeing the man you secretly pine for looking up admiringly into your brother's face (even if it's platonic) while said brother clasps him by his arms and laughs out praising him as his true companion! You would wish you could change places with your bro wouldn't you.
> 
> And the whole location of the office thing- I'm hoping that it slowly dawns on Watson that Mycroft wasn't really lying to him as Mr. Scott. That might make things easier between them.
> 
> I've sorta substituted Williams for Anthea here. He is quiet and works under the radar and brilliant in only the way that usually the Holmeses are. Do forgive me if I don't give him enough footage cos I really have to ensure I give the other characters some of the spotlight.  
> __________
> 
> Now the real news- the reason why I had to research naughty Victorian words (I sent you all links last time) is because I was trying my hand at smut! So I have a series of snapshots lined up post this fic that are like _deleted scenes_ from this one. Some bits of dialogue that I reassigned or some sequence that was changed, and **atleast** one planned love making that was kicked out but cut and pasted to my notes. I'll sorta polish them all a bit and write them out as a series of ficlets post tS&tS.  
> Hope it sounds as good to you as it does to me :))
> 
> Have a fab weekend and I'll see you all next Wednesday  
> ___  
> 14/03: Corrected one typo


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dogged legwork to stop the madness

Ultimately, the men who went to Southend had an easier time of it. They discovered the bomb within forty minutes of their arrival. Doctor Watson was surprised how easy it had been. Holmes had literally walked them into the hovel behind a gin house. It was surrounded by more such ‘houses’ that had too many people crammed into a space not fit for even the living of one. They even had three men in their custody— one of them a second son of a cabinet minister and no doubt a member of the _inner circle_. Almost within an hour of their arrival they were headed back at the station awaiting a train to London. When they returned, they were informed that a telegram from Williams had arrived at the office saying the Brighton team had succeeded as well. They were put to task on planning to foil the next potential explosion. This one was scheduled within London and Holmes once again astounded Watson by his detailed knowledge of the smallest alleys of his beloved city. Even in it’s murkiest parts.

Williams returned with his group just as their group was preparing to head out for the next assignment. His report, however, was somewhat grim. “The bomb was found in a hovel adjoining a poorhouse. Even with our excellent directions, we searched across Carlton Hill for more than three hours before we found their target. The men were getting a bit frantic thinking we wouldn’t find it in time. We caught two men with the dynamite sticks. However, one of them tried to escape and in the ensuing chase and scuffle Tillman received a severe wound. We had to leave him at the house of a ‘friend’. Tillman said to tell you, sir, that he will be back tomorrow on the first train to London.”

Was that a glimmer of pride and concern on Mycroft’s mask-like face as he cautioned them all to be careful since they were running short of ‘trained hands’ as he called them? Or was it simply Watson looking for Mr. Scott when all he had was Mycroft Holmes. He himself couldn’t control the twinge he had always felt when a comrade in arms was hurt.

They were indeed a very small group. Some of the men had been stationed to keep a constant eye over the men in power who were suspected of being part of the plot. Watson knew that Holmes’ urchins were aiding them. Once the game was up these men would hopefully be in custody.

“I hope you all realise that subsequent efforts would now be more difficult. A thwarted foe is always more dangerous. The enemy, if not already alerted, will soon be. He will be more cautious, not knowing how much we know. He may affect changes to the plot. If that happens then we will once again be acting blind. Our only hope is that this close to the game, the plan and players will already be in motion and it will be too late to change much,” Mycroft warned them all. As he said the last, Watson realised what Mycroft was not saying.

The last explosion was planned almost thirty hours from then on. That was more than ample time to make significant changes. He hoped that they would be able to thwart the plan but the chances of at least one of the explosions going ahead unchecked seemed increasingly possible.

A murmur of talk had emanated between the men in the room when suddenly Holmes broke in, “They are trying to incite riots! Look at the sites, Mycroft. They are all in poor areas in and around London. I suspect that poor houses and orphanages will be the more frequent targets. Large damage can occur in such crowded areas and it will generate greater anger among the populace, what the explosions spare will be destroyed in the ensuing panic and subsequent riots. And all of it without raising the ire of the noblesse.”

As Watson looked at Mycroft, he realised that the same thoughts had crossed his mind as well. The faces of the men held dismay and a touch of anxiety.

The men they had captured were merely taking the fall. The _toff in-charge_ at Brighton, as one of Mycroft’s men labelled him (and according to Watson correctly represented the matter), had been conditioned to believe that the Queen was the root cause of all that was wrong with the country and in planning and executing the explosion he would be doing his country a service. The one in charge of Southend was no better.

There wasn't much to be gained from these men, unfortunately. Not one knew the identity of the man behind it all. Interestingly, each group had one ‘outsider’ in it. One was an American, who passionately believed that England deserved to be rid of its monarchy that had led to the colonisation of his own country. The other was an Irish, trying to prove to his leaders that the only solution for the Irish home rule was to ‘make the bloody English shake with fear of the Irish’. No doubt that some faction among the Americans was possibly paying for it all.

Mycroft was sure they were mere tools. Eager hands and feeble minds that could be enflamed to work to the nefarious goals of the strategist while also helping him to find funds easily for the task.

*****

The next twenty hours or so was a flurry of people in and out of the office. Eating and sleeping whenever and wherever possible. It was so warlike that Watson wondered why the powers that be had bothered shipping him back at all. He was still fighting, albeit an invisible enemy forcing them to fire in the dark, forcing them to silence for the sake of the public. Holmes and Williams took turns going out to the sites since they were most adept at rooting out the exact locations of the explosives. Fortunately, the rest of the explosions were planned within London city, else they would have had to spread themselves too thin on the ground.

Mycroft, of course, couldn't do as much. He had the additional responsibility of overseeing the security of the royal family and its guests. The engagement of the King and the Swedish princess was to be announced around the same time as the last planned explosion. Both brothers and Williams agreed that there had to be a connection. In their world, coincidences were simply another name for overlooked possibilities.

Watson was taking a short nap, or was supposed to be taking one, as Holmes and Williams drew out their next steps. He hadn't slept since Holmes had proclaimed London under siege. He was in one of the adjoining chambers filled with small cots for the men. He finally gave up trying to sleep and sat up and pulled out his journal and pencil.

Watson recounted that thus far three of their men had been injured and mercifully none of them fatally. They had had to shoot and kill one man of the enemy. Williams had had one close call when a knife thrown narrowly missed his ribs— a coat was easier to mend or replace than flesh and bone. Holmes himself came out of it with  a few scrapes to his shin. But Watson had a sprained wrist thanks to following Holmes as he charged in after one of the men who tried to escape. It had been dark and he had tripped and in trying to break his fall had sprained his wrist. Fortunately, he always held his pistol with his left hand. But it did play havoc with his medical duties. The men who had been injured could not be sent to a hospital and apart from a nurse he was the only one charged with their care. 

He had been the lone witness to the great effort and courage on these men's part to foil the subsequent explosions well in time. He thought sadly that at least the men in Afghanistan were lauded; these were unsung heroes each and every one of them. The whole point of the endeavour being to ensure that the general populace never learn of the plot, or the perfidy of one of their own. Holmes had been correct in surmising that the poorest of poor had been targeted, where their numbers were the thickest. Had the explosions gone ahead as planned, thousands would have died or have been maimed. The public resentment would indeed have been tremendous, but to Watson what struck most was the deliberately planned, blatantly arrogant, unthinking, unheeded, loss of innocent lives. Clearly, the men behind it all cared not a whit that their greed for power would sunder so many lives.

Their efforts would never be recognised in this age, but he was determined to at least record them and hope that a future generation would read his record and learn of his comrades valiant efforts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While the Victorian times have become synonymous to dull/drab/prudish, bear in mind that it was the zenith of the British colonial rule. Thus in effect those were the most prosperous times for the empire. However, not much percolated to the poorest of poor. This led to a lot of unrest among them and riots seemed almost always imminent.  
> The police as we know them today were hardly as well equipped/trained/etc back then and perhaps rather hated by the economically lower class.  
> There were numerous assassination attempts against the Queen. Plots and counter plots were exposed or covered up - including the infamous Jubilee plot of which I have borrowed some aspects. I deliberately did not re-read any of it as I wrote this because I was afraid I would end up copying more of it. So forgive me for not adding a link here to any of the sites where I have read about that plot or the assassination attempts in the past. I am merely making up one more of them.  
> It wasn't a very placid time politically, contrary to whatever we may think now. Europe at large was facing anti-royalty and anarchist movements and Britain feared that those would travel to its shores. Perhaps some of it did.  
> Britain was not very well liked by the erstwhile naval powers- esp. Spain, the Americans were definitely not friendly, closer home- the Irish were struggling for their freedom.  
> ________________
> 
> I hope I am not giving the whole explosions thing a short shrift. But in my mind its exactly as I narrated- a blur of comings and goings, poorly plotted explosions due to the arrogance of the plotters. All of it unravelling crazily and rather quickly. 
> 
> Hope the next chapter makes things clearer.
> 
> Do drop me a note please. Just to say if all this is making sense, if i've forgotten a comma, given poor Watson a third hand, aged the Queen wrong, misrepresented the geography of 1880s London/England etc etc.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moves and counter moves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to all who wait for my updates. I simply couldn't put up the terrible chapter I had written. It was messy, cramped, unimaginative and anticlimactic. 
> 
> It still is.
> 
> Unfortunately my muse didn't give me anything else over the week and a half that I agonised over this. So I'm dishing it out as is and hoping that you all forgive me.

Then, the morning of the engagement banquet, one of Holmes' street-arabs sent an urgent message, Mycroft responded promptly and soon his agents intercepted a packet of documents. The contents of the document left alarm bells ringing through their group- they could seriously damage Queen Victoria’s claim to the British throne.

With only one explosion to go, and only six hours to prevent it, Mycroft called them to an intimate council of war. It consisted of Holmes, Williams, a masked man who was introduced as Mr. White, Watson and to his pleasant surprise the Countess.

It was the countess who spoke first. “The plot is now clear. We have all been blindsided by what we took to be minor and un-related matters of the King’s stolen letters, the leaks in the various departments, the planned explosions. All of those were but mere sub plots to the ultimate goal of the enemy. To depose the Queen, undermine or perhaps completely eradicate the claim of the Hanoverians to the throne, thus dismissing any claims of her heirs as well. The leaks in the government intelligence and their subsequent exposure to the susceptible general public are aimed at removing any public support for the monarch’s reign. She will be seen as a bumbling fool, too weak to protect her government and keep its secrets. The explosions and the subsequent riots will cement that antipathy in the minds of her subjects and expose her as unable to protect her people from the violence of Britain’s enemies.

“Needless to say, the results will be catastrophic. The widespread riots will foment an unrest which may produce an avalanche of the same proportions as the _French Revolution_. However, our foe has rather cleverly managed to have a plan to counter that. They have planted enough men in this game of sabotage. Men who are foreign agents from sworn enemies of the Empire. I suspect that these foreign agents will be exposed as working in collusion to overthrow the might of Great Britain and hence the public will be rallied to stay true to their country and fight for those keeping its shores safe. The public will turn against the Queen, stop the madness before they go fully against the government, and trust anyone who shows a brave front in the loudest voice. In doing so they will project their stooge who will supplant the Queen- the _King of Bohemia_. Yes, Doctor, I'm afraid the man who has led us a merry chase for those papers with Miss Adler is no victim but a perpetrator.

“He is weak man ruled by his desires and his penchant for extravagant luxury have driven his coffers bare. His own subjects and ministers detest him. No doubt the fool sees this as an opportunity to lay his hands on the riches of the British Empire. He doesn't realise that he will be a mere puppet in the hands of our foe. Be that as it may, he is not our real concern. Even though surprisingly the documents unearthed do make him the strongest contender to our throne if the Hanoverian line dies. They are all legitimate. They have been checked by the highest minds we have.

"It is the papers that dismiss the Hanoverian claim that are to my knowledge inauthentic and have been forged by a master craftsman. However, there is no way to prove them so in such a short time. By the time we establish their fraudulence, the damage will have been done and the King long installed.

“The breadth of treachery is overwhelming! Here is our conjecture so far. None of those held so far have been able to or are willing to divulge a name, but the man behind it all is definitely in a position of great power. The prime minister, one member of the cabinet and two members of the House of Commons who are ambitious younger sons all fall under suspicion. Needless to say, we need definite proof before we can proceed against any of them. The latter are members of two of the leading aristocratic families. Yes, Sherlock you guessed right. Here is a list of their names. I am sharing these with all of you so that you can recognise patterns as details emerge and patterns form. Memorise them for I will destroy this list immediately. You don't want a glimpse Doctor?”

“I'm but a hammer my lady. I doubt any purpose will be served in my retaining any of these names.”

She gave her tinkling laugh then, “If your modesty would rub on my cousins…” Then she sobered and continued. “All of them will be present for the banquet for the princess Royal of Sweden. The King will escort her in a procession to the palace. The explosion will take place among the crowds gathered at one of these three locations given that they will have the largest throngs. The Trafalgar Square has been discounted since it will have a number of the upper crust in attendance within the crowd.

“The explosion will cause the guests to be trapped within the palace and yet in a positively un-festive mood. Note that sixteen members of royalty representing twelve royal families from the continent will be present, as well as the senior most representatives of the governments of five European states. It is then that one or more of those present is expected to present the challenge to the legitimacy of the Queen’s rule. Seemingly provoked into it by the sheer hopelessness of the situation and their own patriotic fervour. They may also present the proofs of the numerous intelligence leaks that have been thwarted by us. This will further support their claim of the negligence on her majesty's part towards her people. I have no doubt that they will claim that they were instrumental in thwarting the attempts. Perhaps they will do the same regarding the so far thwarted explosions. I have no doubt that some of the palace guards will have been turned by these men. They will ensure that they are stationed closest and hence will perhaps even move to have the royal family under armed guard till the matter is ‘resolved’.

“If we succeed in stopping the final explosion, and I hope to Gof that we do, then I don't know how they will proceed.”

Holmes spoke up then, “They will have a contingency planned. They will have been alerted by the capture of their men and the failure of all the other explosions so far. I would suspect perhaps an explosion or its equivalent in the palace itself.”

Mycroft picked up the thread, “Perhaps. Hmmm… In any case we need to ensure that we have as many of our trusted people as possible present there. Anthea, you of course will be present as a guest. As will you Mr. White.” The latter nodded. And Watson realised that he had yet to hear a word from that gentleman. Mycroft continued to address Mr. White as he said, “I have the foremost authorities of the land working on proving that the documents be proved forgeries. The fact that I will have those men and their proofs at hand may prove to be my undoing but I shall risk it in the line of duty. We will liaise with our man in the palace to ensure that _his_ trusted guards are at hand as well. I will also ensure that all of us are present in the palace and possibly at the banquet in some capacity.

“Doctor Watson be prepared to pose as the foremost specialist in whatever ailment we can conjure for one or more of the dignitaries bound to attend. Williams and I will try and be there in our official capacity and hence may not be inside the banquet hall but somewhere close by within the palace. Should an explosion take place, we will use that as an excuse to enter the hall.

Mycroft continued, “And you brother mine will have to be the evening’s entertainment. You will be called upon by the Prince Consort himself," here he gave a brief nod to Mr. White, "to entertain his guests before the dinner with your deductions.” Holmes surged in agitation at the suggestion that he would be a mere court jester or conjuror. Mycroft put up his hand in a conciliatory gesture, “We do need you there, Sherlock, in the main hall. Please do try not to start a war before the conclusion of the evening’s festivities. It chokes the channel and you know how that upsets grand-mère.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that this wasn't too anticlimactic for you all. I always think that our intelligence agencies and preventive forces thwart many attempts and neutralise quite a few threats that we never learn of (unless something drastic happens). And then we all start criticising them for not having done enough.
> 
> Do recall that at this time, my own country was a colony of the British and hence I don't have much sympathy for them during that era :D:D:D. 
> 
> But, I wanted to praise the agents for foiling an attempt before anyone was significantly hurt. This is my way of doing so.  
> If that bothers you then please don't take this as pro- or anti- establishment or whatever others may call it, but simply as my plot and let it be :)  
> _________
> 
> Yes, I've already said that Anthea is a rather important political figure. She is nobility herself. Plus she is close to the royal family and hence she would be invited to the engagement banquet. And yes she doesn't like our villain too much. But then I think she doesn't suspect him of villainy only dislikes his obnoxious ways.
> 
> The whole rigmarole of the King of Bohemia having a legit claim to the English throne is literally a figment of my imagination and has absolutely no factual basis. 
> 
> Mr. White could be anyone. Perhaps the Prince of Wales, or maybe a dignitary from an allied nation or a Palace official. Anyone.
> 
> I know the manner in which I am ensuring that my protagonists end up at the palace banquet is rather contrived. No apologies for that cos I can't think of any other way :)  
> __________________
> 
> Next, the race to the end and the mystery of Mrs. M.
> 
> Have a wonderful week.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The foe

Eight hours later as he and his fellow lodger raced in a carriage to the Holmes’ estate, Watson recalled that evening and wondered how they could all have been so naïve as to think that the engagement banquet and its unavoidable shenanigans would be the biggest of their worries or that it would all begin to end there. That had been a mere skirmish and the attached anxiety no more than a child's nightmare compared to what they hurtled towards now.

He hoped that Lady Sherringford had reached in time to at least warn the households. She was after all reported by her cousins to be the best ‘horseman’ of all of them and also among the few who would be believed blindly by both the households. He wondered how the Holmeses and the Countess were coping with the fear and blinding fury that he was feeling even though it wasn't his home and family that had been threatened.

In a bid to keep his fears at bay, he tried to fix his mind on the previous evening’s events. The final explosion had been anti-climactically contained when one of their teams patrolling had literally stumbled upon a box just as the crowds were beginning to gather for the evening’s procession of carriages proceeding towards the palace. It had been so simple that it had made Mycroft suspicious and they had wasted the efforts of some of the men who had been instructed to keep combing the areas.

But it had been the banquet itself that had been a shock. Not one of the anticipated events had taken place. It was as if the house of cards had collapsed upon itself. Not a single twitch had been out of place.

Doctor Watson, late of the Northumberland Fusiliers had been posed as a specialist in nephrology (the Archduke suffered from gout). He had been placed on standby along with the Royal Physician and hence was present through the evening. He had almost wondered if they all had been delusional and conjured a plot where none existed. However, as the evening drew to its epoch of the announcement immediately preceding dinner he sensed a nervous buzz. It was the same feeling that he had felt before the Gazi’s fell upon his troops and once just before he had encountered the _thugs_ in the plains of Awadh.

There was a minor disturbance at one end of the ballroom. He stilled as he noticed the same man, what was his name… Aaah yes! Trevelyan. The very same blackguard who had wounded Mycroft. Had that dastardly attack been just a few days prior? He was being ushered out politely but somewhat forcibly and was kicking up a fuss. The doctor caught Holmes’ eye and the two began to make their way in that direction.

Fortunately, for the dignity of the British court most of the guests were oblivious to the minor disturbance, although a few heads had begun to crane. He was quickly removed from the hall. A few minutes later, Mycroft had walked up to the Prime Minister and said a few words in his ears. The gentleman was soon escorting the King of Bohemia and his most intimate entourage out of the hall. None of them were seen afterwards. Watson understood that Mycroft and the Prime Minister would have handled them all without the incident spilling into a catastrophe that would wound both nations.

Soon Williams came to fetch Watson and Holmes from the hall with a silent nod. The countess surreptitiously gestured for them to leave without her. After all, she was still an invited guest of the Queen at the banquet.

Trevelyan and two others had entered the palace uninvited. They had been detained in an antechamber that had been barred to everyone else. As they neared, they caught angry words of “What have you done with _him_ you cowards?” And “Still loyal to this farce of a court are we?”

It was soon clear that the leader and mastermind had abandoned them. Quickly, Mycroft surmised that it was the second name in the COuntess' list- Frederick MacNeil, the third son of the wealthiest family in the North. He was an ambitious man with a strange hatred of nobility (perhaps due to his being a third son and hence having almost no inheritance).

Watson was familiar with the name. Indeed most Englishmen of that time were. He was vigorously active in the Parliament and his speeches in the House of Commons regularly earned him mention in every edition of all newspapers. He was loud-mouthed and abrasive and rather popular among the masses. He could whip crowds to frenzy with his speeches. Though Watson could never figure what exactly the man stood for. He seemed to oppose everything and berate everyone!

In short, he was the rising star of the parliament and, among the youngest of the crop; he was already being touted as the most likely candidate for future Prime Minister.

The breadth of support for his plot was truly staggering. Of course, each individual now loudly proclaimed that they had done so for the good of the country. Clearly, their idea of patriotism was vastly different from an average Englishman’s. MacNeil had bribed and blackmailed in equal measure. He had also roped in allies from Ireland, America, France, Bohemia and Spain. He had managed to dazzle and bamboozle quite a few radical groups. He had also gathered enough funds to perhaps start a second civil war.

However, as he saw his plans go awry Frederick MacNeil had been astute enough to abandon ship and leave his supporters in lurch.

He was now absconding. Along with him was suspected to be a large amount of funds that had been meant to fuel further unrest and a sizeable portion had been promised to some of his supporters. Some were furious, others scared, but as with all treachery, they all fell upon each other. Soon Mycroft and Williams had the most comprehensive list of all involved even to the smallest degree.

_The squirrel_ had already suspected most but some names were still a surprise. Some suspects of course were exonerated in the process (fortunately for Williams his assertion that the Prime Minister was not involved had proved correct). But all those in the know when questioned indicated, or dropped enough clues, that Mycroft was proven right- the master-mind was clearly MacNeil.

The men stationed at MacNeil’s house reported back empty handed. He had escaped unnoticed somehow. They had been watching both known exits. Holmes and Williams rushed out to search for clues at the various possible sites. His house, his office, and those of several of his associates yielded no results.

Finally, one of Holmes’ street-arabs told of the man visiting his club at a rather irregular hour two days prior.

The trip to the club too seemed hopeless. No one could recall where he had been in the last two days. They questioned and dug around, with nary a thought to secrecy now. They were at their wits end. Making no headway.

They were about to exit the club when Holmes pounced upon a servant as he was skirting their group seemingly on his way to run an errand. He was employed at the club who at first denied any knowledge. It was then that Watson discovered the unpleasant side of Williams.

The seemingly mild mannered man turned into interrogator extraordinaire. The room around seemed to shrink and turn unnaturally cold as Williams tore at the man. Watson had a foreboding that this was an aspect of espionage that no doubt the older Holmes too exercised and excelled at and he was sure he would rather never witness it again. All out war was far more preferable to the soldier.

Less than a quarter of an hour, the servant broke down and admitted that he had helped the _young master_ procure a safe but unremarkable carriage and horses. He had been an old retainer at MacNeil’s father’s estate and still held deep loyalty for the youth. The man had engaged his brother-in-law to arrange the change for the carriage horses en route and that is how he knew that the _gent_ was on his way to ---shire.

It was the first time that Watson had seen his friend scared. Holmes’ face had been ashen as he had almost run out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy all fools day lovely people.  
> SO the mystery is revealed a bit more.  
> Sorry that its not a very long update. And sorry that I'm now reduced to once a week again.  
> But I seem to have literally jumped scenes and left gaps everywhere.
> 
> This means a lot of editing and self-betaing to ensure i don't put anyone at two places at the same time or forget to add someones reaction etc etc.  
> Thanks so much for your patience and encouragement.
> 
> I am surely going to re-visit the whole thing later and cut out a lot of flab.  
> ________
> 
> Of course, the villain of the piece is totally an OC and any resemblance to blah blah blah.
> 
> And yes, I already warned you it would be anticlimactic. Still don't know what the muse is on about!
> 
> Couldn't resist having Anthea ride a horse of course :D  
> _________  
> Yes, I do believe that as the MI5/MI6 of the 1880's, Williams would torture a man to yield information.
> 
> As for ----shire. Well look at the beginning of the chapter. You know where they are headed.
> 
> And nope not sorry for the cliff hanger :D:D:D


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The race against time

As the carriage drove around another bend, Watson recalled that the threat had been instantly clear. The coward had not only abandoned his supporters at the first hint of failure, he had also somehow figured out the main players behind his failure and was now set to hurt them in revenge. MacNeil’s journey would no doubt take him to ---shire, the seat of the Earl of Sherringford with it’s manor house and lands. They were adjacent to the estate of the Holmes family. What Mycroft had perceived as a sanctuary for the children was now under threat!

They had rushed out of London as fast as possible to thwart the man— hopefully this time for good. The countess had been the first to leave. She had taken two of her most trusted servants and proceeded on horseback. Watson had had a whispered conference with Holmes. _"I'm concerned, Holmes. Isn't this too unorthodox? I know you and the Countess are very discreet people but her riding out all the way could risk their journey being talked of."_ Then he had added placatingly, _"But perhaps desperate times call for desperate measures."_

 _"Rest your heart, Watson. Of the two of us, my cousin has always been the better at disguise,"_ Holmes had assured him. His doubts on that count had drastically reduced then, after all he considered Holmes himself a master.

Still the soldier’s chivalry had balked at the idea of the lady travelling alone and towards danger and he had barely restrained himself from commenting. This time however it was Williams who had uncannily caught him for a private moment and reassured him that those servants were trained guards “ _Significantly better than those buffoons at the palace, Doctor. And her ladyship herself truly can outride a Corinthian.”_

He sighed and took away his eyes from the passing scenery to look at his companion. Holmes was sitting the same way as he had the past hour— slumped over in his seat, eyes closed. And yet the doctor knew that the detective was neither asleep nor resting. Once again he wished he could reassure his friend somehow. They would get there on time. They had to.

He thought with a sympathetic pang about Mycroft. He had had to stay put in the capital to bring it all to an _official_ completion, assess any further threats, inform and assure the Royal families of both Britain and Sweden and the Prime Minister (who fortunately had not been part of the plot), follow protocols that would satisfy the combined demands of the bureaucracy, diplomacy and law.

Watson could hardly imagine the nightmare that the Bohemian contingent could still be causing for their English hosts. The King of course could not be arrested and brought to trial. Nor could he be penalised in any way. But he hoped that Mycroft (and the Prime Minister) thought about the harshest diplomatic retribution for him that sent the world a resounding message that Britain and it’s Queen were not to be trifled with.

Then there was the Princess and the Swedish royal family to appease. If the Queen had truly promoted the match then they would demand a reckoning. The engagement had indeed been common knowledge. He hoped that her royal highness did not bend to all that hogwash they called _protocol_ but steadfastly broke the commitment. With a jerk he realised that he was feeling rather vindictive against the King. He had a brief flash of sympathy and admiration for Miss Adler. It couldn’t have been easy for her.

His thoughts once again circled back to Mycroft, as they were wont to do all the time now. The poor man had had his stoic mask in place when he whispered a few words to his brother and simply nodded to the doctor. Watson could only guess at the depth of his anxiety and frustration at not being able to rush to his family’s aid and protection. The life of those dedicated to the Queen and Country was not an easy one. He wished he could have assured Mycroft that he would do his best to be a worthy substitute and that the welfare of those that MacNeil threatened was just as important to him. But circumstances prevailed and he had to leave without so much as a word to the man. 

However, it was something else that Williams said that was nagging him now. Something he couldn't fully recall at the moment given the urgency of their journey and the accompanying anxiety. Something about soiled trousers and the need to immediately change clothes, something about wanting to plunge oneself in a bath for a week.

*****

Finally they reached the post where they had planned to change the carriage horses. The decision had been made because it was a whole half hour prior to the village where MacNeil had planned to change his horses. Also, it had an inn and the innkeeper was discreet and loyal to the _family_. He held a message for them from the countess. Holmes read it quickly and then handed it over to Watson. Not surprisingly, it was in the same code that Holmes used when leaving Watson messages during cases. In translation, the message approximately read—

> _“My sources tell me that the man started rather late from London, only an hour before the banquet. No one has sighted him yet but there had been an accident just before this inn and a lone rider rode past the post all the way to the next village for help. A spare carriage had been sent down and was seen crossing the post only a half hour before our arrival.”_

*****

It was dusk when they entered the gates of Holmes’ childhood home. The carriage had barely drawn to a halt when two footmen were opening the door and pulling out the steps and an old retainer of the house rushed to meet them. Once again Watson marvelled at the workings of the servants of the privileged, they seemed to have near psychic powers of knowing when and where they were needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, you clever folks were right, that damned villain is on his way to Holmes manor. And yes, poor Mycroft is stuck in diplomacy when he'd rather be rushing to his son, grandmother, cousin's side. 
> 
> A Corinthian is a regency term for a gentleman (we are talking birth not behaviour) who was well known for being a good sportsperson. Most of them were usually either good horse riders or reckless phaeton drivers etc. I'm still not sure why my muse chose to have Anthea a good rider, and none of the others. (I mean yes the next chapters are ready and I know why she had to reach faster but please... Watson could have been at her side too couldn't he?)
> 
> I have a head canon of Anthea and Sherlock as children besting each other at charades, each getting into more elaborate disguises than the other. yup thats how Holmes attained his proficiency at disguises :D I also think that Holmes should have left many coded messages for Watson in their joint career that he never mentioned in his narratives.
> 
> Even as a teen when I first read ACD's A Scandal in Bohemia I recall thinking that Irene had had a narrow escape by not marrying the idiot king and that whoever he plans to marry had all my pity. My muse thinks it's foolish of me to dwell on these trivialities and refuses to explore whether the princess broke it off or not. So i guess that story ends here. Feel free to assume whatever makes you happy (if you are bothered at all)
> 
> And yes, Holmes comes from landed gentry. (ACD - The Norwood Builder)  
> There's a tiniest bit of hint on how I plan on resolving Mrs. M's mystery. Not to worry if you didn't get it but it's another stone to pave on her path to recovery and I cannot lose sight of that.  
> _______________  
> Sorry folks I'm really struggling to make it an interesting read. Hope to make it worth your time to read this to the end. I know right now this is turning prosy and dialogue-less but hopefully this will be the last such chapter.
> 
> Still un-betaed or period-dusted or language polished so please forgive the errors and do let me know so I correct them and don't repeat them.
> 
> See ya soon


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The quiet

As was usual in the countryside, once darkness fell- it was absolute. The only sounds that could be heard were of nature settling into slumber. The village was a good walk away and in any case, save for the alehouse, there would have been no activity and very little light. The quiet was at once peaceful and startling. It was what every city dweller envied of his country cousins and yet found unable to bear past a few days.

The moon was but a sliver tonight and Watson was grateful for that. The starlight was bright enough to make him wary of detection. Stealthily they made their way towards the Sherringford House. There wasn’t much that happened in one house that wasn’t immediately communicated in the next. It had been so for generations— both through family as well as the servants. The Holmes butler had confirmed that the Countess had indeed arrived earlier. Though the news had not been allowed out to the village. Fortunately, Madame Vernet had left for Harrogate just the day prior on a whim and was not expected for another fortnight. Neither the grounds-staff nor the village had reported any strangers so far. All in all, they were quite sure that the goings on had not been noticed outside the household.

Holmes had then left the room to check some things. Being a veteran soldier, Watson had spent the time between then and now quickly cleaning the grime of travel, replenishing himself, and even taking a short nap.

They were now on the path that connected the servant’s entrances of the two houses. It was much shorter than the route between the formal entrances and also quite shielded from the surrounding grounds. They were both armed.

“I suspect that MacNeil and his cohorts have had a bad journey and couldn’t reach here earlier. I gather that he has atleast five men with him. Perhaps more. Even after the mishap, they should be here by now and perhaps are awaiting darkness. After all he is a coward and would no doubt hesitate to attack a household even if it was all but made up of women and children.” Then with a sigh he added, “I do wish we could lure him in with a bait. The banquet was a disaster and now we run the risk of frightening away the man again.” Holmes had said.

Watson had merely wished the battle on him soon. All this cloak and dagger was beginning to chafe at his straightforward soul. He did wish that they could have done this away from the women and children though.

Their first alarm came as they entered the Sherringford House. Though the servant’s entrance was open- there was no one in sight! The kitchen was abandoned with no sign of the servants cleaning the remnants of the day or preparing for the morrow. Holmes merely turned to Watson and placed a finger to his lips. 

Given the hour, the house was still lit but not a sound emanated from anywhere. They made their way silently through narrow servant stairs. Holmes signalled him to skip a third step on one of them and Watson gave a mental thanks to Holmes’ youthful adventures that he knew them so well. They first made their way all the way up to the attic and the servant’s rooms. They were empty and silent. Fortunately, they hadn’t seen any signs of violence so far. Next, Holmes checked the nursery. It was similarly deserted. Just as they were about to abandon the nursery they spotted the countess in a corner. She simply gestured them to follow her as she led them to a hidden alcove adjoining the nursery. Given Holmes’ lack of surprise it seemed to be another secret of the house that he was well aware of. A hushed conference confirmed their worst fears. The enemy had entered the house.

“A half hour back, I came up to the nursery to send the _‘all’s well’_ to the Holmes manor when they broke in and took us by surprise. They rounded up all the servants and the family. I hid in this alcove. Since then I have been on reconnaissance. There are eight of them in all. Easily overwhelmed but for the fact that they all carry firearms and the servants are under strict instructions to avoid violence. They have all been herded into the Great Hall.” Holmes swore under his breath.

“Yes Sherlock, the one room with no windows and merely two entrances at each end. The servants are all there too. Fortunately, it’s evening and there are but twelve of them. The rest shall be here only in the morning. I couldn’t be sure if MacNeil was among them.”

They definitely couldn’t storm the rooms. The doors to the dining hall were large but the servant’s entry was narrow. They needed reinforcements. It was quickly decided that the Countess would fetch help. She made her way to the servant’s entrance en route the Manor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter.  
> I can't believe how many mistakes (anachronism, plot jumps, terrible grammar, et al) I have in my first draft. But i'm cleaning them up and that actually takes as much time as actually writing the fic cos I seem to have developed a blind spot to them!  
> (If you find more of those please do drop a note i'll love you for those edits)  
> Nevertheless, the story as you can see draws to its culmination.
> 
> For those who don't know- Harrogate was a spa destination (still is. theres even a bottled water brand in the UK with that name)
> 
> It wouldn't be surprising that two of the wealthiest landowners had adjoining estates but they truly wouldn't be cheek and jowl. You would need a good walk or a carriage to get to the other. the fact that the servants' entrances of those are closer by walk than the formal entrances isn't surprising either.
> 
> And yes, the 'village' could be a bit of a distance from the manors. Country hours as they were called in those days would necessarily be early since lighting up a room was expensive. So early to bed was an economical thing. Plus Household chores were easier to do in the daylight and hence again early to rise was once more smarter unless you were loaded.
> 
> Large houses always had separate stairs for servants that were never used by family/guests. The servant stairs were usually narrow and hidden away from sight. And old houses are notorious for having hidden alcoves, priest holes and other mysterious chambers. However, I expect curious children like Sherlock and Mycroft would know them all and curious adults like Anthea would ensure they got to know them as well.
> 
> And yes, Sherlock was wrong about MacNeil having five people. I couldn't let him be right all the time :D  
> ______
> 
> Do let me know if you like/dislike this/need this improved or are glad that things are finally winding down :)


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No this is not a new chapter.

My apologies to all for dragging this out. I'm behaving abominably by writing out other fics (even if they are in this verse) instead of closing this one but....

Bear with me won't you. I shall surely return soon and finish uploading the edited chapters of the closing scenes.

In the mean time I hope the fluff, smut, and angst of the ficlets that I'm adding as a [series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/449686) will keep you entertained for a bit. Thanks for being such wonderful readers and friends.


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so first of all I didn't want to delete the prev chapter because it causes havoc with people who have subscribed to this and plus it had a nice cheery comment :D.
> 
> Next, I have two warnings for this. This chapter has  
> 1) forcibly holding a child/ children as 'protection'. **None of the children are harmed**  
>  2) a bit of non-graphic violence  
> 3) a minor OC death. It is NOT graphic. 
> 
> But please keep a happy fluffy fic open in the next tab if it disturbs you. 
> 
> Or drop me a note and I'll send you the whole thing with stuff blacked out! yeah, I could do that if it helps.
> 
> Thank you all so much for sticking around.  
> Some of you even read my immensely juvenile attempts at writing a bit of romance and cheered me up.  
> You all are stars!
> 
> I've cleaned this up as much as I dare to without mucking up everything good in it and because you all have been so patient and nice about my sudden brake on this I am posting what is for me a longer chapter.  
> But honestly it would have been cruel to break this into two. Just cruel.  
> Enjoy!

Holmes quickly led Watson through the labyrinth of the back stairs to those leading to into a small triangular landing. One end opened to the dining hall while the other connected to a smaller parlour. It was clear that the solid wall facing the stairs flanked the gallery between the dining room and the parlour. Pistol drawn, Watson remained watching on the stairs, while Holmes stealthily crawled over first to one door and then to another.

He returned with a clenched jaw. They retreated further away and he reported to Watson, “They have formed a shield of children. The adults have been made to sit further away. The children, both family and servants, have been placed facing the captors. Even I cannot ascertain whether MacNeil is in there.” He continued speaking softly, “The parlour has two men as well. Armed. It is an intelligent precaution on their part since it has wide windows. They have drawn the drapes over them. The best thing will be to try and lure as many of them to the parlour as possible.”

“We could go in and pick those two in the parlour. The noise will be enough to bring others out there.”

“No, they might drag the children in as well. The way they are situated now is indication enough that they wouldn’t hesitate using them as shields.”

“…”

“Anthea should be here soon. We will meet them closer to the kitchens.”

They retreated to the kitchens. Watson was grateful that for once his friend wasn’t rushing into danger without calculating the risks.

They didn’t have long to wait. The countess must have run all the way and back because soon she was stealthily entering the kitchen again with four of the Manor’s sturdiest footmen as well as the stable boy. Each of them was carrying a thick staff, and one of them had a poker in his hand and several lengths of ropes. Their numbers were finally evened. Holmes quickly recounted what little he had gleaned thus far.

“It is fortunate that the children have already eaten. Though the servants are still hungry.” The countess murmured. “One is less likely to panic on a full stomach.” She explained to no one in particular. It was a mother’s way of coping with the harrowing situation and the Doctor’s heart went out to the lady who was trying her best to keep calm.

Strangely, Holmes waited patiently while she gathered her thoughts and her wits. Even more strange that he looked to her to devise a plan. The plan was simple. They would wait for the best opportunity and pick off as many of the men as possible. Reduced strength would hopefully push them towards surrender.

“There is a powder room off the other end of the Hall. Between the Great Hall and the Ballroom.”

The countess nodded, “They will soon take turns to visit it. A few of us should stay near the servant’s passage there and ambush whoever comes. Unfortunately, it will mean splitting ourselves into two but we will manage. Nekker, Butcher, Roberts, with me down that way. Young, Gills, with Mr. Holmes and the Doctor closer to the hall.

“Doctor Watson, here are two more loaded pistols for you. Only Nekker here knows how to handle firearms, so it will have to be Sherlock and you handling guns, though, I am sure your hands will be steadier. Having said that we do need to be quiet and hence it limits our use of them. Now, men, there is to be no noise, nothing that may elicit alarm among the captors. It is possible that our first ambush may set-off one but that cannot be helped. Sherlock, the rules stay the same. If either of us is are sure that we can enter the hall without causing alarm or without harming the family or that it is inevitable then we let out a whistle and we all will rush in. If you are captured or injured start coughing and sneezing loudly. Fine then, let’s begin. Do keep in mind that these are desperate men and they are traitors. They have already shown that they can be cruel and cowardly. They will save their own skins first. Try not to get killed please.”

*****

Holmes handed one of the pistols to Young. “Use it as a threat if required. Place your finger so. But no matter what do not pull the trigger unless you are absolutely sure that none of the family will be harmed.” The man nodded once.

Watson observed that his hand was steady as he gripped the pistol. A soldier at heart then. Once again they were in the passage near the servants’ stairs to the Hall. Holmes observed that there were two men less than before in the Hall itself. He quickly gestured to the men to stay where they were and keep a look out, and then beckoned the Doctor into the parlour. It was rather dark now and Watson was once again reminded that the country got rather darker at night than the city. There were no lights streaming in from the windows, save for the moon and even with the open air devoid of coal dust, it wasn’t much. As Holmes had predicted, the ‘missing men’ were in the vestibule betwixt the Hall and the parlour. The vestibule itself was had a candle in the wall. But they were facing the stairs, obviously expecting an attack from that direction alone. They stood at the balustrade overlooking the floor below. The exit of the Hall faced the passage along the balustrade. As they had done countless of times before Watson waited for his signal. At a single sign from Holmes, Watson and he stole behind the men. Holmes soon had a hand clamped on his victim’s mouth and his arms behind his back in a vice like grip. He used his superior height to quickly lift the man bodily and pull him into the parlour. The doctor was less subtle. Using all his strength, not just his arm but the twist of his hips as well, he whacked the second man on his temple. The man crumpled and Watson hauled him on his shoulder and followed Holmes. He saw Holmes stab his fingers into the first man’s throat to choke him. They quickly put both unconscious bodies in the servants’ passage leaving Young and Gills to bind them. Gills reported that one of the men had left the Hall from the other door and had yet not returned. Hopefully he was now a captive as well.

They returned to the vestibule. Watson was now in his element. He knew what they were waiting for. No doubt the men would be missed some time and someone would come to look for them.

Another ten minutes and then they heard a shrill whistle.

“Young, Gills, inside.” Holmes shouted out loud. Watson hoped the men had heard him thought the wall.

They rushed into the Hall to find that the others were already there. It was the chaos of battle. The countess and Nekker both held their pistols aimed at three foes in the centre of the Hall. One of them was very obviously an aristocrat, while the other two had the carriage of guards or soldiers. The flanked the former. They had the family and servants seated around them in a circle. The inner most and the outermost had children in it. Before the guards could raise their arms, Holmes shouted out in warning and a single shot rang in the chamber. One of the guards was flung back with the impact, his shoulder blossoming with blood. A curl of smoke rose from the pistol in Watson’s hand. The butler of the house simultaneously raised his voice and a group of servants took it as a signal and rushed away, gathering the children closest to them. The enemy grabbed two and held them close. It was Lady Harriet and the cook’s granddaughter Beth. The rest scrambled and lined the walls. Gathering around the other children and the women, pushing them behind pieces of furniture, picking up anything at hand to use as weapons.

“Let them go.” The countess said raising her voice above din and walking in further. “Surrender, and you will be safe.” The others quietened now, though a few whimpers and sobs could be heard.

Watson scanned the room quickly. He focused on the children first. Lady Harriet looked much the same as she had in the coach, that day in London. She was truly her mother’s daughter. The other child looked terrified with tears streaming down her young face. Towards one corner near the main entrance, behind the countess, Doctor Hooper shielded Quentin behind herself. The nurse he had met in London was standing a few paces away, a boy, no more than eight clutched her skirts. To Watson’s right, near a cabinet full of porcelain, Barkis was holding Lord George tight to herself.

However, there was no sign of MacNeil. Watson was sure the man at the centre of the Hall was not the one the newspaper artists had sketched. From the corner of his eye, he saw Holmes signalling to the countess. Ah! He told her they had two. The countess’ men had taken one. That still left two unaccounted and Watson realised that could only mean trouble.

He shouted across, “Nekker, the door.”

The man turned around and took one of the men with him to guard the main entrance. Another two servants joined him. A few took that as a signal and turned to guard the exit closer to the doctor.

The countess raised her voice again, “Mr. Clover, is it not? The Countess of Morcar’s nephew. You and your men will not be harmed. I give you my word. Let the children be.” In response the man tightened his hold on Lady Harriet. Her voice then dipped icily, “Be warned though, if one hair of either of the children is harmed, by design or by accident, there will be hell to pay.”

Precious minutes ticked by as the man hesitated. It was clear that he was not the leader and he was unused to making his decisions. However, his hold did loosen somewhat. “Come now Mr. Clover. Why die for a leader who clearly needs to use children as shields. I am sure that a man such as you would never stoop so low. Further, it seems he has abandoned you or he would have rushed to your rescue would he not? Why not save yourself then.”

At this point, the guard holding Beth pushed her away and threw away the knife he held in his hand in surrender. The man Clover looked up in alarm and then realising the futility, let go of Lady Harriet. They all sighed in relief, even as those closest scrambled to grab the children away.

Suddenly, another shot rang out. Mr. Clover would never stand trial. He had turned his pistol on himself.

*****

At this, Holmes and Watson, rushed in and held the guards. One was bleeding profusely from his wound. They bound them and the doctor tried to plug the wound. It wouldn’t be fatal unless it got infected. He raised his voice to enquire and understood that no one else was hurt. They all began gathering towards the centre, looking relived. Some of them were crying; some were thanking the countess and their troop; some began to set the room to rights by sheer habit; others sank to the floor in exhaustion. Watson himself was busy first bandaging the wound before it could be properly treated and then checking the corpse so that it could be moved.

The countess was hugging all three children and simultaneously telling young Beth what a brave girl she was. Holmes had an arm around Lord George’s shoulders and was shaking the elderly butler’s hand. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes since the fatal shot when a sudden hush stole up the room. It started at the entrance and one after another they turned to look up as four men entered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh well just because i didn't break it up doesn't mean i wouldn't have a cliff hanger there :D:D:D:D  
> Was that good? Tell me tell me tell me  
> I'm feeling a bit nice about this fic again and I hope when the whole thing clears up in the next chapter you all will be grinning just as much as I am.


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gasp!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has multiple triggers. PLEASE BEWARE if you are vulnerable in any manner.  
> It has a bit of violence (no more than the prev chapter)  
> It has references to child abuse  
> It has references to mental trauma in captivity
> 
> I'm sorry but thats the only way I could write it.

Someone gasped out loudly. One of the men held a pistol to Mycroft Holmes’ neck. Another stepped in just behind Williams and Watson was sure that there was a cocked firearm at his back. They stepped into the Hall, stepping abreast of each other and surveyed the scene.

The man who held Mycroft was surely MacNeil. He spoke in cultured smooth measured tones, “Good evening, my dear Countess. If I may have your pistol, my lady. The others too. Please fling them out softly in this direction. Thank you. I do hope for your sakes that there are no more firearms on your person. After all, accidents are rather terrible are they not?” He looked directly at the doctor when he said the last and smiled genially and Watson felt a cold dread in his guts. This man wouldn’t see reason.

Turning to his right he said, “Now Master Quentin Holmes. If you could please come closer.” Mycroft made a strangled sound of protest, Doctor Hooper scrabbled to stop the boy and MacNeil dug his pistol painfully into Mycroft’s flesh. “Your father will be shot if you do not hurry my boy.”

Watson watched in horror as Quentin straightened up, shook off Doctor Hooper’s hands, and started towards the man. Mycroft’s face crumpled in anguish.

Then, from a scene worthy of Drury lane, a burst of movement emanated from behind them. A woman rushed out from behind the door, hands held high holding a marble statue, shrieking like the furies. It was Mrs. Maynard. She smashed the statue onto MacNeil’s head, just as he was turning to look behind. The head of the statue broke off and MacNeil’s pistol clattered to the floor. She raised it again and brought it down once more. And again. Shrieking loudly. Shouting, “You will not have him. You will not have him. Not again. I wont let you.”

Williams twisted around and was grappling with his captor by then. Mycroft looked stunned, head swivelling from the wrathful figure to his son. Then as if making a decision he snatched the pistol and shot MacNeil in the leg. Then he quickly snatched the broken statue from Mrs. Maynard’s hands and pulled her into the hall. “Anthea,” he called out.

Suddenly, the Hall erupted into action. Watson surged with the others towards the entrance. He saw the countess gathering Mrs. Maynard into her arms. The lady was still frantic. Quentin was clutched to his father’s breast. In that moment Watson knew how sometimes duty and the heart tore one in reverse directions. He stopped himself from going to Mycroft and instead turned towards the countess and her companion. Just as he joined them, Lord George and Lady Harriet came and hugged their mother’s legs. Doctor Hooper tried to help but Mrs. Maynard refused to let the countess go or perhaps it was the other way round. Lady Sherringford was torn between holding her companion and patting her children till Holmes stepped in and plucked them both into his arms. He simply nodded to his cousin. Then he murmured to Doctor Hooper to take care of the others. Turning towards his friend he tilted his head in the direction of the huddled pair. “Watson.”

The doctor stepped in. Mrs. Maynard was sobbing loudly in the countess’ arms still repeating the same phrases. “Not again.” And “I won’t let you.”

The doctor gently nudged the two out of the Hall and into the adjoining parlour. Beckoning to Barkis to follow them. Just at the parlour’s threshold, Mrs. Maynard’s legs suddenly gave in. The doctor picked her up and took her to the largest settee in the room. She was shivering almost violently. His shoulder was going to scream at him later but at that moment he didn’t feel even a twinge. Behind them in the Hall, the butler seemed to have taken over and could be heard arranging for everything and everyone to be back at the usual place. He could hear some other voices and knew that one of them was his friend’s and another possibly his… possibly Mycroft’s but that was another thing that he couldn’t fix his mind on. He had a patient to look after and she was finally speaking.

Mrs. Maynard had tears streaming down her face and she was still shivering though less violently than before. The countess wiped her face with her handkerchief and continued to shush her, holding her close, and stroking her back. Barkis brought a glass of water and a shawl. The countess held the glass to her companion’s lips, nodding encouragingly as the maid draped the shawl around her. Mrs. Maynard clutched the glass like a child and drank in long gulps. Then she released the glass and surprisingly she clutched one of Watson’s hands in one hand while still turning to the countess again. Still sobbing but considerably quietened she turned to the countess and said, “I couldn’t let him take Jim again.”

Without missing a beat, the countess answered, “Of course not, Catherine. You stopped the man. Jim is fine now. You are fine now.”

“He hurt Jim, Anthea. I saw the marks. And he tied me up. I couldn’t do anything. He hurt him. I saw it. I couldn’t do anything.”

Watson quietly asked Barkis to fetch some sherry for all three of them. She returned soon with four glasses and Watson gave her silent thanks and ordered her to sit down with one of the glasses, next to Mrs. Maynard. She needed all her loyal friends right now.

He ensured that Mrs. Maynard drank two of the glasses. The countess had finished hers in one manly gulp and was helping Mrs. M sip hers carefully like a child. Barkis looked a bit stupefied, sitting there, as if only now realising the enormity of the events of the night. The doctor took it upon himself to soothe her and make her drink the last glass. Then he turned her attention to a task, he asked her to instruct the footmen not to let anyone enter the room, unless it was an emergency. He asked her to have Mrs. Maynard’s room prepared and to be prepared to spend the night with her as usual. Finally, he told her to have someone bring his bag from the Holmes Manor. In the previous crisis Barkis had fared better when given something to do.

When they seemed a bit more settled he sat down on the ground before his patient. He wasn’t sure if what he was about to do was correct but he went with his gut. His patient needed a catharsis. The boil had burst open at last and it would be better if the pus was drained out completely lest it fester forever. He nudged her gently, “Why did he hurt Jim?”

She turned to him in shock and then started speaking again. Once again she couldn’t stop. What followed was an incessant string of seemingly disjointed sentences but finally a picture emerged. It was the ghastly picture of her time during abduction. It took some time but soon he had the salient points. He tried to arrange them in his mind. After a while she seemed too exhausted to go on and collapsed into her friend’s arms trembling. The countess stroked her back even as she uttered soothing phrases like, “You were so brave Catherine. So brave. You saved him tonight. You stopped him.” Barkis had returned to her seat by then. It had been less than half an hour and no one had entered the parlour. The Hall beyond seemed deserted. Doctor Hooper was competent enough to take care of the injuries sustained.

He gestured querying to the countess who gave an imperceptible nod and asked her friend, “Would you care to sleep now, ma sœur?” There was no response save shuddering sobs and so the countess nodded to Barkis and together they pulled her to her feet, “There now. Barkis is right here and so am I. Stand up Catherine. C’est parfait. Doctor Watson has returned to meet us. Isn’t that wonderful? Small steps now. Tell me if it is too much.”

Slowly they made their way out and up to the rooms on the far side of the house. The countess kept up her soothing chatter throughout. Their progress was so slow that soon a footman was following them with the doctor’s bag from the manor.

Once in her chamber, Watson waited outside for the ladies to help her settle in for the night. He asked the footman regarding the others and was gratified to be told that Doctor Hooper was indeed a very competent lady when it came to tending wounds. She had already cleaned and staunched the blood and bandaged the two men that had been shot before the constabulary arrived. It isn’t clear what Mr. Holmes told them but they left soon after. The servants had all been sworn not to spill the events of the night saying it was in the service of the Queen. The man is sure most of it will be soon known to the men at the public house and the kitchens of the village but, he says, “No one from ‘outside’ will ever know. We take care of our own, sir.”

It had been decided that the attackers had been taken to the Manor. Mr. Holmes said that his men would stand guard around them and then they would be taken to London.

The children were already in their beds and the staff was beginning to close up the House for the night. They had insisted but it seemed that Mr. Holmes would not leave his son or the Doctor here and had insisted that both return to the manor for the night. A carriage would be waiting him once he was done. Much as he would have liked to be under the same roof as his patient, the Doctor knew that wasn’t a choice. So he merely nodded.

He gave Mrs. Maynard a dose of laudanum. Asked Barkis if she would need some as well. Her response had been typical and expected, “No sir. I will sleep through comfortably enough. Had my sherry didn’t I. The missus needs me at night at times.”

The doctor forebore to say that the laudanum wouldn’t give the ‘missus’ a chance of doing so but left the maid to do what she thought best.

As they closed the door behind them he heard his patient’s gentle snores and turned to the countess. The countess had a small tired smile on her face, her hair was scattered and her dress was dusty, no doubt owing to her running between the houses, and she was still the most beautiful woman the doctor had ever seen. He offered her his arm and she took it with a beaming smile, recognising for what it was: a mutual recognition of the need for a friendly touch. She led him to the nursery and his tired mind wondered how the same place that had looked menacing and foreboding just a few hours back now looked like a sanctuary. The countess bent to kiss her children in their sleep and then quietly they made their way down again. The butler was waiting for them in a sitting room.

“Watkins, tell us please.”

“The House is settled for the night my lady. None of us were harmed and I have given them all instructions that breakfast and all other morning chores can be delayed by a full hour.” At this the countess broke into her tinkling laugh and said, “A whole hour, Watkins? How generous of you.”

The old creased face of the butler broke into a somewhat rueful smile and said, “I will be up at my usual hour my lady and come what may will need my tea before I set to my tasks.”

“A whole hour without your minions!” sighed the lady theatrically.

“Sacrifices must be made my lady,” said the loyal retainer with a twinkle.

They drank their aperitifs in silence and then Watson bid the countess a good night. A carriage was indeed waiting to take him to the manor, where the Holmes’ butler solemnly awaited his return with a report.

“The master wished to know when you returned, sir. If you are not too tired,” he enquired politely.

Watson was ushered into a sitting room where he found both brothers presiding over a half full decanter. What drew his eye was the sleeping form of Master Quentin Holmes on a sofa swaddled in blankets. He looked at Mycroft and understood that the man hadn’t been able to part from his son after the daunting incident tonight. He accepted a snifter from Holmes and settled down on a comfortable chair.

“Good evening, Doctor and welcome to the Holmes Manor. I am sorry not to have been here to do so earlier. But, it seems the nightmare is finally over. I thank you for your part in it.”

It was a stiff and formal speech and the doctor felt a sudden pang of loss that he hardly understood.

“Do you have all the men in the plot then?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I hope they all hang.”

“…”

There was a long silence then that Holmes finally broke.

“How is your patient Watson?”

“I think she will be better now, Holmes. I will know tomorrow for sure of course but something tells me we have finally turned a corner.”

He let out a muffled yawn then and apologised. They all took that as a signal to retire for the night.

Holmes led him to a room that he explained was adjacent to his own and in the West wing. A footman awaited him there to help him with his clothes and did so in spite of his protest that he was used to dressing and undressing without help. The man banked the fire in the room and pointed out the cord that would summon someone during the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to all over this chapter but it had to be written and yes written in just this way. 
> 
> First of all : No, Mrs. M's kidnappers were not these people. The squirrels get into all sorts of danger and that was just one of them
> 
> Next, I'm sorry for describing little Jim's state. I want sure till I wrote it out. But I know things were terrible for street kids even back then and I couldn't sugar coat it.
> 
> Finally, I know some of us aren't so sure what is so traumatic about Mrs. M's experience, while others are horrified. (I did a, lets call it a _pilot_ , and found that of my two test subjects one was visibly distressed by what they read and simply skipped commenting on it and the other said 'thats it? and she is what catatonic because of that?')
> 
> To the former ones, apologies. I hope I didn't trigger anything and I do hope I was right in thinking the amount i put here was justified. i tried my best not to be too explicit cos I myself don't find it easy to read (or write) such stuff.
> 
> To the latter let me explain a bit and say, it is rather scary to even be thinking of being kidnapped first of all. Next to have been kept tied for days on end in the dark would probably leave one's mind a mess. To a fully grown independent woman like I imagine Mrs. M, it isn't easy lying in your own excrement, with your clothes soiled. Then having to have a child (who normatively you should be caring for) to clean you up and feed you.... and finally to see visible evidence of abuse on the same child's body and to be helpless about it. I would be an effing basket case.
> 
> \-----  
> Ofcourse Mycroft loves Quentin and of course he can't just let go of him. Told ya all that he is a good father.
> 
> I guess this is the beginning of the end then.
> 
> But yeah still a few chapters to smooth of the edges  
> but hopefully not so tedious
> 
> So I'll be back with the rest of it.


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The warnings for trauma still apply.  
> Please exercise caution.

As the doctor closed his eyes the events of the last day came tumbling into his consciousness. The scenes flashed one after another and he grew restless. After an hour of tossing in his bed, he slipped out and put on the slippers and dressing gown that had been left for him. He hadn’t packed a stitch on the way here so he assumed that the servants were well equipped to provide for guests who dared to venture in without luggage. Usually his soldier’s body would crave sleep the minute the danger was over and safety was at hand. He lit the candle again and then flung open a window. The gentle breeze carried the fresh and crisp scents of the countryside into the room. He had nearly forgotten what it was like. He hoped it would calm his mind but nothing seemed to work.

Finally, in a spurt of inspiration, he walked to the desk on the other side. Yes, it had a stack of paper and a well of ink. He lit a few more candles, got the fire working back to a blaze and then settled down to write. He would piece together Mrs. Maynard’s story into a coherent narrative. She had jumped from one incident to another, one emotion to another, she had repeated things often, some of her sentences seemed disjointed and he wondered if it was a futile exercise. Would they ever make sense of those or ever fully understand the pain and humiliation that that dignified and independent woman had suffered? He knew that in all likelihood she would never meet her perpetrators again, nor would she ever know if they had ever been brought to justice. But he sincerely hoped that her actions today helped her regain and reclaim herself. She had been beyond courageous that evening. It was one thing to never be afraid and quite another to be afraid and overcome one’s fear: especially in the defence of another. To him, the latter was far more heroic. He gathered his recollections and started to write.

What were the salient points?

> She was abducted and held in a dingy room. She couldn’t be sure where it was. It was dark except a candle occasionally. When she came to, she had been tied up to a chair and was not allowed to move at all for hours at end. Outside she could hear the cries and whimpers of children. “ _It had been so warm. It was like a furnace. And the children wouldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t see them but I could hear them. All the time.”_ She was left alone constantly tied to the chair. She had soiled herself before the end of the first day. She was left in that state. _“I couldn’t… I was just lying in it. For days.”_ Each day her abductors came and spoke to her in some language she couldn’t understand. Her failure to comprehend simply angered them. She is sure they thought she was pretending to not understand. Watson can still hear her denial ringing. _“I would never lie. Why would I say I don’t understand if I did? I wasn’t trying to get them angry.”_
> 
> They never physically abused her. But she still recalls how she repeatedly soiled herself, because they never untied her fully from the chair. She is still traumatised by being a thirty two year old woman who has soiled herself and lay in it like a child or an animal. But that first morning a boy named Jim came in to give her food and drink. He came in only once each day to serve her gruel and watered wine. He saw her state and removed her soiled clothing. She had cringed in shame but his touch had been sympathetic. He only removed her drawers that first day. He did this everyday. He would come in with a candle, remove her soiled clothes one layer at a time. For the first time Watson was grateful that women wore so many layers of petticoats underneath. He had always grumbled about it before whenever he had needed to examine an old dames inflamed knees.
> 
> The boy never spoke to her but twice someone had called to him through the door calling out _Jim_. He was scrawny and dirty, nothing much to look at. In fact Watson was sure that he was a typical specimen of a street urchin. He always smiled up at her. Except that last day. That day that the countess’ men had finally found her, Jim had come in and hadn’t even looked up into her face. He wasn’t smiling. That day he had been later than usual. As he was helping her she noticed the bruises on his arms first and then when he turned to get her plate she saw teeth marks on his nape.
> 
> She was still appalled that she had been so helpless. She could do nothing, had done nothing except be frightened. She wondered if he would ever forgive her. _“I am so sorry. Lord! I am sorry I should have done something. I should have stopped them. I should have gone back. But I couldn’t even clean myself. What could I do? I am so sorry,”_  she had sobbed.

Watson realised that she still found it unforgivable that she hadn’t lifted a finger to help the child; that once she came back, instead of trying to find him and helping him, she merely went into shock and didn’t emerge from it for days. He understood that her captors’ treatment of her, the abuse that the boy faced and her own helplessness in the face of both had her traumatised and trapped in a mental cell.

He somehow got to the end of his narrative and slumped into the chair. It was exhausting simply to write her experiences. Was it any wonder that the poor woman hadn’t had a day’s rest since then? He could understand her nightmares (his were bad enough and they had followed an honest battle rather than a cowardly attack), her inability to get back to ordinary life, her paranoia (even against him). He was beginning to understand her need to bathe frequently and change her clothes. He knew that the kidnapping was aimed at the countess and shuddered to think of that sharp mind and that brave heart reduced to similar circumstances. From the countess he had learnt that Mrs. Catherine Maynard had been no less and had been a fitting companion to her lady. His heart went out to the child _Jim_ : Forever lost to the sewers of London.

 _“What is this world we live in where we brutally crush innocence?”_ He wrote in his journal. _“It is tragic that the cruelty of man knows no bounds. He wantonly destroys lives. Lives that he can neither build nor birth.”_

*****

Late next morning, Mycroft, Holmes and Williams left for London, with the prisoners as well as the corpse.

The countess had delayed making a decision to follow immediately till she was sure about the children and her companion as well as the household. The next day, both the households were back to their usual like clock work. The doctor couldn’t help marvel and admire them for it. Master Quentin Holmes returned to Sherringford House accompanied by Doctor Watson. His cousins greeted him at the door and he promptly regaled them with a marvellous story of having had breakfast with Father and Uncle Sherlock and Doctor Watson and Mr. Williams! His cousins were rather envious. Lady Harriet merely sniffed in disdain and pretended that she couldn’t care less and Lord George wanted to know whether it was true that Uncle Sherlock ate all his food raw?

Early that day, Doctors Watson and Hooper had conferred over the next steps. Doctor Hooper had read the narrative detailed by Watson and agreed that his conclusions of the causes of her manic symptoms seemed plausible. She then added a few of her observations from her stay at the House thus far. Some of it was a repetition of the details in her letter. But nevertheless Watson was grateful that he had her sharp mind to help. Together they agreed that the patient needed a calm and peaceful environment for the time being and that the next few days would be significant in bringing her out of her self-imposed emotional incarceration.

The patient was worn out physically and spent most of her day in bed. She did make an effort to sit up and greet her Doctors, though, and they both shared a quick glance of triumph. The following day she rose at her usual hour and thence commenced as per usual. It was only at noon that she broke her routine and asked Barkis if they couldn’t go to the nursery to visit the children. It had been more than a year since she said it last and it took all of the maid’s gumption not to promptly burst into tears, as she told the doctors later. Doctor Hooper left for London and her work the next day.

*****

Over the next few days, it was clear that Mrs. Maynard was finally breaking free of whatever had trapped her. She was still ‘quieter than the old’, and she would sometimes be lost in her thoughts for hours, or a sudden melancholy would steal over her face. But for the most she was mingling with the children again, laughing and speaking. Some of the servants were taking their directions for the day from her again, though most were still keeping to the distance of the year past, which in Watson’s opinion was still required. She even greeted and spoke a few words to Watson when he made his daily visits. He varied them for lunch or dinner on alternate days. On one occasion when she praised the cook’s pudding and asked that she repeat it soon, Watson saw Cook sobbing quietly behind the lady’s back even as the elderly Watkins patted her and led her away.

The doctor’s own days were filled with walks around the two estates, visits to and from the three children, including one picnic with them. The staff of both houses was determined to make much of him. He gathered soon enough that the incident of the carriage had been related in great detail by both the children as well as Barkis and had taken on the proportions of a legend! At first he had been rather embarrassed about it but soon their loyalty and love for the family and especially for the children helped him accept the adulation good naturedly. It helped a lot when the countess once laughingly remarked that he deserved a medal of honour and courage simply for sharing rooms with her notoriously asocial cousin.

He was also regularly sending and receiving missives to and from London. He wrote to his partner in London. First apologising for his continued absence and then to discuss the various cases. His senior partner was gratified to hear from him. He informed him that they now had an assistant. A young man with aspirations to become a doctor and that he had been apprenticed at a chemist’s for some time and had been of tremendous help. He good humouredly also told Watson that Mrs. T’s confinement was progressing normally and if he delayed enough there was every chance that he would be greeted by a birth announcement upon his return.

Holmes was surprisingly diligent in rendering the details of both Baker Street and beyond. Holmes informed him that _‘Doctor John Watson would be expected to give his testimony to the committee, once his duties to the household of the Earl of Sherringford allowed him to do so’_. He imagined his friend sarcastically mimicking the pompous tones of a Lord and could not help but smile.

Doctor Hooper too wrote to him every alternate day enquiring about Mrs. Maynard. She had finally been able to persuade a prominent undertaker to allow her to assist him. She had gleefully promised Watson ‘ _all the gory details of death by gout and tuberculosis’_ and asked him to pray that a few victims of stabbing or other accidents made their way to this particular undertaker. Watson couldn’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. Others would call it unladylike. But he knew that Molly Hooper was a lady through and through. He reminded him of his sister at times. Harry had never ever stitched a button or hemmed a shirt properly. But she had been the best cricket player and swimmer he had ever known. He knew that the doctors at St. Bartholomew would not allow Doctor Hooper to be present during dissections and she always witnessed the bodies only once the doctors were done with them, which he knew from personal experience was useless. He hoped that her arrangement with the undertaker helped her in her studies and her work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to post these two chapters together.  
> I don't think they could do with being read a week apart.
> 
> And yes I know I slipped in tone in this one a bit when Watson recounts the whole ordeal. Cos his reactions and phrases seem too modern but i guess I'm too tired to change it and i truly apologise for the sloppy handling of not keeping it Victorian in tone.


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Return to London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: The trigger warning for suicide and violent death continues. Please be careful.
> 
> 29/5: additional notes  
> I see from comments that the long fic has taken its toll and so if you have forgotten then a quick reminder-  
> When I refer to King here it's the character of the King of Bohemia who started the, all on this path.  
> Prince Albert was Queen Victoria's husband. He was not called the king

After twelve days in the country, they returned to London. The Countess could no longer put off her presence in the capital and strangely it had been Mrs. Maynard who had persuaded her. It had been a regular evening and they had been enjoying the quiet of an aperitif, Barkis stationed in her usual chair embroidering a length of blue satin she had told the Doctor was for her niece.

Doctor Watson had just informed them that he had had a letter from Doctor Hooper. The countess had remarked that she greatly admired Molly Hooper and that did the doctor know that Molly’s father was a distant cousin of the Holmes? When suddenly Mrs. Maynard remarked, “Anthea, my dear, isn’t it time you returned to London?”

Watson remarked to himself on the calm with which the countess responded as if it was a very usual remark, “Why do you say that, Catherine? Are you bored?”

“Not per se. But it wouldn’t do to neglect your duties in town and this time of the year you always do have many invitations. I guess I have simply gotten used to it.”

“I suppose then we will do so. Would the day after suit you, Doctor Watson?” she turned to him eyes twinkling and that had been all to it.

The staff of both houses had extracted promises from him that he would visit again. Though he was sure he would never have occasion to return, he couldn’t say so and gave them vague assurances.

In India and Afghanistan there had been a few times when the regiments moved that he had travelled in an entourage consisting of women and children. But travelling with Lady Sherringford and her children was so different that he could draw no comparison. The carriage itself was well appointed (as opposed to horseback) and then there was the absence of the incessant and merciless heat. Finally, and most important, there was the company. He set off with Master Quentin and Lord George at first but at the very first stop (they had two) Lady Harriet exchanged places with her brother. For the last leg, all three of them shared his carriage and he was touched when Lady Harriet dozed off on his arm, her precious new hat perched on his knee.

*****

He found Holmes at Baker Street and it gladdened his heart when Mrs. Hudson remarked (as Holmes pointedly ignored the two of them) that his friend had indeed been waiting for him. Holmes had accepted a small robbery case in his absence and he regaled the doctor with all the details of his deduction over supper. It warmed the doctor and he realised he was indeed home.

The next day, he visited his practice and asked after his patients promising to resume from the day after. He next visited the public library. He had been starved of London news while in the country. There had been almost no mention of _‘the plot’_ there in any conversation. He was sure that the newspapers in London would have had a field day with it. But as he scoured the copies of all dailies he was rather surprised. There was mention of the plot but strangely the main actors were **never** mentioned.

Instead, there were odd references to European anarchists, Irish and _colonial traitors_. Tall claims of a thwarted plot to blow up the entire palace! One paper even claimed that Prince Albert had heroically saved the Queen from an assassin. It went on and on. Nothing was officially substantiated. But never was a single name printed. He read through as many newspapers as he could lay his hands on. He scoured all of them but there was no mention of either the King or MacNeil at all, or of the other players such as Clover and Trevelyan.

The events in ---shire too never appeared in print. He grimly supposed that it wouldn’t do any good to the public faith in the government if so many members of it were seen to be plotting against the Queen.

Doctor Hooper and Holmes both confirmed (in private) that most of them had been transported quietly to various penal colonies. That was no small thing. Nevertheless, his middleclass heart rebelled at what he saw as pussyfooting around the landed-class. They should have been publicly shamed and punished. He knew that someone like him would have been ‘made-an-example-of’. His faith and pride in both Queen and country were severely shaken.

A few days later there was a small notice of a death. In spite of being a suicide, Mr. Clover was buried on his family’s grounds, his death attributed to a hunting accident. Watson was disgusted.

*****

Life returned to normal surprisingly fast. He was once again attending to his patients, following Holmes to Scotland Yard or cases. The one addition he made to his schedule was that of regularly meeting Doctor Molly Hooper. They had taken to meeting each week now and, in honour of their first tea together, they had decided to explore as many ABCs in the city as possible. They had indeed become friends. The children had returned to the country to resume their routine. Reportedly, Holmes’ grandmother as well as the countess’ father-in-law was now back in ---shire. He still visited Mrs. Maynard regularly, though less frequently now. He was gratified to see her slowly resuming normal life and he had been told that she had even been present a few times when the countess had had visitors Mrs. M had been familiar with. It wasn’t easy but he was sure that it was no longer impossible.

The countess had indeed been busy in the whirlwind of the London Season. Her salon was always crowded, her evening booked in advance and she had even hosted a dinner. Doctor Watson had firmly but politely declined her invitation. Though unhappy about it, she hadn't seemed surprised. However, just the once she had managed to spare time for tea with him minus Mrs. M and the children. It had brought back fond memories of the first time he had spent in her company and he had smiled unguardedly. She had returned it a little hesitantly, "Don't judge us too harshly, _mon ami_. Our blood might be blue but it is not cold." She sighed as she said, "One's hands may be tied but they are still armed, please be patient."

She had then asked him about the new fad of incandescent light bulbs fuelled by electricity and if it would catch on in his opinion.

However, his disquiet with the way things had ended with ‘the plot’ increased with each passing day. He had met Mycroft only once since then and that too in the passing. They had simply exchanged nods in the countess’ hallway. Even now he wasn’t sure if he was glad that he did not stop to speak. He had always followed his heart and presently even his heart was torn in two directions regarding Mycroft.

Would the man let slide the betrayal of his country and a threat to his family in his own home? However, it was not his place to ask.

Perhaps his disgruntled mood showed rather clearly for Doctor Hooper remarked upon it once. She had insisted he call her Molly and had reciprocated by calling him John. ‘ _Doctor Watson is too distant and Watson makes me feel like I’m aping men!’_. But to his gratitude, once she understood that he did not wish to speak of it she never asked again .

Another time it was Holmes. In his characteristic way, he remarked without a preamble, “You are angry.”

Watson had looked up from writing his journal with an enquiring frown.

“This is why I disdain to work with my brother, Watson. The lines of crime, punishment and justice in politics are rather blurred. At least in our work when we decide to let a perpetrator escape it is our decision and is based either on my judgment of his character or on your moral compass.”

Watson was startled into laughter by this pronouncement and Holmes had smiled to him. Clearly the speech had been directed at least partly to lift his mood.

Then Holmes cryptically closed the topic saying, “I confess that I have never been morally offended by his decisions nor have I ever been deeply angered. Even so, although I am unable to do so, I do hope that you will forgive him.”

He resumed his experiment then and left the bewildered doctor scrambling for his thoughts.

*****

A few weeks later the Strand reported that mutiny had broken out aboard a _transportation_ ship to Botany Bay. It had been soon contained but Lord Peter Montford Trevelyan, till recently the darling of London hostesses, was on board and had unfortunately sustained injuries and had subsequently died. It wasn’t clear, the paper said, why he was aboard the ship, since, previous unconfirmed reports had indicated that Lord Trevelyan had been travelling to the continent following a ‘duel’. Was it perhaps a greater crime?

Even though there was no reason to do so, Watson was sure that the so called mutiny and Trevelyan’s death were not mere coincidences or accidents. Neither to his mind was the way the incident had been reported. Clearly, the attempt was to sully his name and disallow any sympathy for his plight through insinuation. London loved gossip. People would talk.

*****

A few days later, he began to hear whispers in drawing rooms and tearooms about Frederick MacNeil. MacNeil was rumoured to have escaped to the continent to avoid creditors! It seemed that he had incurred mounting debts and had no means to honour them. His servants had been left destitute, ‘ _without a salary for months now_ , _and not even a letter of recommendation from him_ ’. He heard how MacNeil had preached moral rectitude, sobriety and moderation in public, but he had frequently gotten into drunken brawls and had had rooms full of fine clothes and silks, velvets and satins instead of the plain Manchester cotton that he wore in public. There were further rumours of his dalliances with several ‘ _women of loose morals’_ and of ‘ _orgies with his cronies’_. In short, the name of the most brilliant star among the new crop of Parliamentarians and the darling of the masses was thoroughly besmirched. If the man ever dared to show his face in public again he would be pilloried.

It left Watson wondering if there wasn’t a larger game underneath it all. Someone seemed to be picking off the actors of ‘the plot’ one by one.

One fine day, nearly two months after the plot had been thwarted, Watson returned to their rooms to find Holmes waiting for him with one of his _street arabs_. A quick-witted boy that Watson knew by sight and who promptly gave him a wide smile and bobbed his head in salutation. Watson couldn’t recall his name but remembered Holmes saying that he always used the biggest and poshest words possible in his reports even when he couldn’t pronounce them correctly; and that the boy had a rather interesting turn of phrase always. “A regular Shakespeare, Watson.”

“Twit here has some interesting news, my dear doctor. Would you mind if I invited him inside?”

Watson merely raised a brow in surprise and stepped inside. Holmes rarely invited his urchins inside 221. On the rare occasions when they brought their messages there he never deigned to ask Watson before asking them up. He removed his coat, hat and gloves and left his walking stick by the door as well. He had just had tea with Doctor Hooper and was in a rather pleasant mood. He smiled as he sat down in his usual chair and looked up expectantly at their visitor.

Holmes took his chair in turn and nodded at the boy, “Tell the doctor what you told me, Twit.”

Twit turned to the doctor and scrunched his face seriously, and when he started the enunciation was indeed rather punctilious in places, “It’s the gennleman Mr. Holmes asked about that day, Doctor Watson sir! The one I tells ya had gone to his club and ne’er returned.”

Watson’s eyes widened as he turned to Holmes but his friend wasn’t looking back he was prodding their correspondent, “You mean Mr. MacNeil, Twit?”

“Thass the one, sir. They told me ya had found a man, a… a server at the club who knew where he’d gone. In’nit right, sir.”

“Yes, Twit. Your information is indeed correct.” Holmes remarked ruefully a hint of admiration in his voice.

Twit straightened with pride and continued, “Well, word is that he’s in debts, sir. Very large debts.” Twit’s voice took on a dramatic timbre, “They says how he cheated at cards to get out of them, sir. Was it why you was looking for him? Never mind not like you will tell the likes of me.”

Twit carried on.

“An’ then he runs away sir. Without hon… ‘on… without paying up. If you know what I means, sir. Never a good idea is it? They put you in prison if you do that. In St. Giles that will get your throat slit, won’t it? Both the cheating and the running away.”

Neither of them responded to that query nor did they comment on the gory fate thus described. Twit continued unperturbed, liberally sprinkling his _sirs_ as punctuation, “But I knows you was innerested in him, sir, so when I hears that he is seen in St. Giles, I hastens to the rooms there. Not that we have regular like rooms there of course, sir, begging your pardon. They don’t compare to how you’re here at all, sir.”

Watson bemusedly wondered for a moment if he should hasten to assure Twit that no offence had been taken so that he could get on with his narrative. Holmes’ patience was never strong.

Fortunately, Twit went on without pause. His voice took on an even greater theatrical vigour and his hands waved frantically as he narrated it to them, which of course emant that his enunciation deteriorated drastically. “So I goes there myself and finds that there is a toff in one of the rooms. But they don’t know whos for sure. ‘Cos he ne’er comes out or goes about. Not even at night. And no one visits him at all. I wonders how he ate an’ all, sir. He is there for a whole week, sir. And then some men come looking for him, sir. It was jus’ this morn, sir, and their faces are covered. Like those highwaymen or pirates. Out he comes then, sir. They hunts him through the streets. None of us not getting in the way. This way and that he runs. No one wouldn’t open their doors to such a one. Oh but he tries, sir. One almost pities him, sir. But they says he ran one them _houses,_ sir. What if the law comes knocking at our door, asking what bizness we has for helping a sinner? And when they finally round him up he screams and cries, sir. Like a pig he screams. Says that he has done nothing wrong and they cannot take him. Then he takes out a knife and stabs his own throat, sir.” Here his voice quietened, “I never seen so much blood, sir. He just lies there dying while these men look on. We all sees it, sir. With his own hand. He must’a done somethin’ awful bad ‘cos none of them helped him.”

His voice had tapered in volume and then suddenly the boy grew silent. The change from his animated self was so dramatic that Watson felt a shiver down his spine. He shook himself up and glanced at Homes who seemed lost in his thoughts. Indeed, this narrative was solely for his sake. Holmes had heard it all before.

Twit said softly, “They shant be burying him proper will they, sir? Him being a suicide an’ all. I wonder who had it in for him so badly?”

“That will be all Twit. Thank you for your report.” Holmes put a coin in the boy’s hand and bid him farewell.

The rest of the evening, Watson wondered how had the man escaped from Mycroft's custody? How did he end up in St. Giles? To what end had Holmes requested this repeat _performance_? He recalled his friend’s words from a few weeks back. Were the two connected? Holmes rarely did anything without a purpose.

And then he thought of the other part of the previous conversation and wondered if Holmes _knew_. Holmes had always known everything about him. Had his regard been too transparent? And to paraphrase Mr. Twit: who had it in so badly for Frederick MacNeil?

*****

The news papers did have a field day then. Rumours were rife both regarding MacNeil’s death as well as his life. There was no separating the facts from the conjectures. At the end of it all, the man had been painted so black that one wondered if even the devil would call him his own. However, there was no doubt that he had died the death of a mad rabid dog on the streets of St. Giles. There was also no doubt that there had been absolutely no honour in his death, the man had died by his own hand instead of facing the consequences of his actions. The British public was merciless, the idol had been toppled and was now being ground to dust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK so first of all just because I'm writing this does not mean I agree with all of it. I'm trying to imagine an era that I know only through it's prolific authors and bits of the history that collided with my own nation's. I tried not to be judgemental about it all and I hope you will do the same.
> 
> To my mind Watson is neither political nor too religious. He is simply a good man and a product of his times.
> 
> There have been quite a few stories when Holmes has let off the perpetrator. Like the Blue Carbuncle and Three Students  
> _____  
> Like I said earlier, Queen Victoria did have a number of assassination attempts. In one of them there was a report of the prince consort saving her life but that isn't confirmed fully. So I just had to use it :)
> 
> Duelling was frowned upon in Victorian times unlike the Regency era that romanticised it but it really wasn't considered as bad as you and I do. However, if you were caught duelling your best recourse was to hide on the continent for a short time and resurface once everyone moved on.
> 
> Victorian public considered it a virtue to abstain from any and every human indulgence: food, drink, gambling, sex, clothes. Not everyone adhered to it of course but many public figures embodied this abstinence sometimes in spirit and sometimes only in public.
> 
> Suicide is a sin in many religions. During this era, the social and religious ostracism against suicides was ghastly. Among other things, had it been known as a suicide, Mr. Clover would not have been buried on sanctified grounds.
> 
> Transportation to penal colonies was horrible. The shame itself was unbearable. The whole family would suffer it. In addition you knew you wouldn't be coming back so the parting must have been harsh. Then the physical part of the journey- the most horrific conditions you can imagine, not many survived. If you survived that you had the harshest weather, terrain and living conditions to look forward to.
> 
> The whole code of honour was rather romanticised during this era. Cheating at cards was considered far worse than cheating on your spouse. Any hint of 'dishonour' would bring public shame and could ruin not only one's social but economic standing as well. Dickens has written far more graphically and poetically about debtors and creditors and the consequences than I ever could so i'll simply remind you all of his writings. As a quick primer here's a link to what honour meant during these times and how MacNeil's punishment could be considered harsh.  
> http://www.artofmanliness.com/2012/11/06/honor-during-victorian-era/
> 
> Hope this chapter and the two preceding this did not upset anyone in any manner.  
> _____
> 
> Light bulbs and electricity were all the 'fad' back then. It was around this time that the London's Savoy theatre was fully illuminated by bulbs. Edison and Swan are the best known names behind these but the credit goes to so many more people. A look at England in 1881 is fascinating to me and not simply because it was the year that Holmes met Watson: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1881_in_the_United_Kingdom
> 
> Ta then. Drop a note and let me know :)


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forgiveness vs. acceptance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it folks. The last chapter.   
> There are too many people to thank for this fic and I don't want to sound like an oscar winner so I'll let it be. But you know who you are: you prompted, you read, you kudosed, you commented. I cannot thank all of you enough. As I told one of you recently, let me paraphrase myself, forget 39 chapters, I wasn't sure I would publish 39 words.   
> I'm going to take a short break from long fics. I will be writing out a few shorts only. The whole DVD extras that I've been promising myself :)
> 
> Then I tackle the contemporary Johncroft beast that has been languishing.

After the first few days, Doctor Watson steadfastly ignored it all. He believed in the punishment matching the crime. While it was true that the man’s crimes had been dastardly but to the doctor’s straightforward soul, a public accounting of his plot against the crown and his actions in ---shire, followed by a fair trial would have been far more just. Holmes, he thought had been completely in the right in staying away from _such_ work.

However, the matter would not stay ignored. Several of his patients wanted to discuss the matter aloud. Then he encountered an acquaintance who insisted that the doctor join him for a meal and spent the entire dinner discussing _‘that charlatan’_. He never offered his opinion on any occasion, but when Doctor Hooper wanted to discuss it he could not stay quiet.

She had become a dear friend. Having once denied her he couldn’t be churlish enough not to hear her out on the subject. Further, unlike the others she had as much knowledge of the whole affair as he did. Beyond all this, he knew she did not have anyone else to discuss these things with. Though she worked only with the men working with (or under) Mycroft Holmes, they were not her friends. Not having her own practice or an employment in a hospital she had no colleagues. So when she chose to speak about it he gave her an encouraging nod.

He wasn’t too surprised when she refused to see the two sides as plain right and wrong. “It isn’t my place John. I have no sympathy for the man. But neither can I condone Mycroft’s actions.” It was the first time that she had mentioned his name and in spite of himself he couldn’t help pay attention.

“You think he is behind this... this besmirching of the man's name?”

She merely sighed and said, “If not then he has set someone on the scent. It is sometimes hard and I have to remind myself that I promised my services to the Queen. Do you know, even though he paid for my education, I wasn’t forced to work for his department at all. But I could not bear the idea of spending my life as a glorified mid-wife and nurse. This work is far more to my liking.”

“And you get enough corpses to conduct post-mortem examinations,” interjected the doctor smiling in understanding.

“You know me too well, John,” Molly grinned in reply.

*****

The weather was rathe pleasant, his leg was behaving itself and so he had taken to walking whenever possible. One evening he wandered around the streets aimlessly. Holmes was out on a case and unlikely to return till the next evening. He disliked dining alone and had asked Mrs. Hudson to leave him some cold cuts for supper and not bother too much. As he walked the lengths of the streets of his beloved city he wondered about the disquiet in his mind. Surely he was too pragmatic to expect a clear demarcation between the good and the evil among people. But he had always hoped to be able to tell right from wrong. His gambol took him to his old streets and as he passed by his old lodgings he was surprised that less than a year had gone by since he moved out of them and joined Holmes at 221B. He smiled to himself thinking that he was fortunate indeed that he had found a home, a vocation and a friend. Yes, he had found friends.

Master Quentin, Lady Harriet and Lord George had returned after about a month in the city and, with the end of the season looming, the countess and her companion would soon follow. He would miss his visits to the house. His patient was continuing to improve and had pleasantly surprised him now on many occasions by a pleasant quip or a clever observation. She laughed more easily. Even though she seldom left the house and though the countess asserted she was still much too quiet ‘than before’, Mrs. M did sit through a few hours of company easily and engaged in conversations too. A physician could not have asked for more. The countess attributed much of it to him, but the doctor knew that his patient had cured herself. The day she had stopped hiding and cowering and had lifted a cold piece of carved marble to defend her charges from a dastardly traitor, **she had set herself free**. He felt strangely proud of her, much like a parent would, whenever he thought of her actions that day. Yes, Mrs. Catherine Maynard had cured herself.

Both ladies had repeatedly requested his promise to visit them in the country. The countess had even laughingly threatened to send Lord George to _persuade_ him. He had always smilingly brushed the requests away. He told himself he needed to keep a distance with his patient. He knew it was not the whole truth.

On a whim he decided to retrace his steps from his lodgings to the place he had dined on _that evening_ so many nights ago. He crossed the street and was nearly at the mouth of _the alley_ when a carriage came to a stop a few paces ahead of him. He looked up to see a familiar figure descending its steps and shook his head unbelievingly as he waited for Mycroft Holmes to join him. When he did, they merely tipped their hats to each other, neither saying a word.

As he had on prior occasions, he followed where he was led, and so when they knocked on a familiar door he wasn’t entirely surprised. He followed his companion inside. Would they sit behind those screens tonight and whom would they be eavesdropping on? Perhaps they would go to _the room_ , his traitor heart whispered. Mycroft abruptly stopped and turned to him, “Would you prefer the latter?”

He couldn’t begrudge the man the smile that his question provoked. Shaking his head he held his silence. Mycroft held his gaze for a moment before sighing and turning back. “Some day, I hope to learn from you how you do it,” the spy murmured as the doctor followed.

Mycroft beckoned one of the attendants and said a few quiet words. The man nodded in understanding and led them to a room. This one was much the same as the previous one that they had visited, except that it was brightly lit. In the light of the candles he saw that the room wasn’t just opulent, it was decadent. Mycroft gestured towards the sole chair in the room. Watson sank gratefully into its plush embrace. He hadn’t realised how tired his feet were. Mycroft filled two glasses on the sideboard, handed one of them to Watson and then sank into the divan opposite.

As before, the doctor waited patiently for Mycroft.

“You are the only one, doctor. The rest become nervous and speak up first. But then you are an exception to so many rules, aren’t you?”

“A doctor cannot be impatient, Mr. Holmes.”

“And neither can a soldier, I presume.”

Watson shrugged.

“You are both. How quaint. I am still not sure that my people came back with all there is to know about you, back then. You hide rather well... Hide is perhaps incorrect. You blend in. I doubt even Sherlock has unravelled all of it. Are you still angry with me?”

“…”

“I didn’t forgive and forget the treason or the attack on my loved ones go unpunished,” Mycroft said pointedly, searching Watson's face. Then he sighed resignedly, “I admit it wasn’t my hand that meted out the final retribution but one cannot always indulge oneself. Plus, I doubt even I could have designed an end so gruesome.”

That got a reaction from the doctor.

“Ah! You assumed I had planned it down to the last detail. I see. Truly, you never cease to amaze me. Your anger may have stemmed from my seeming inaction at first but it now emanates from the fact that you think justice wasn’t served. Or rather _your perception_ of justice wasn’t served. I’m afraid I couldn’t control the ultimate outcome. Alas, one doesn’t always have the luxury. Other matters called upon my time and efforts. I merely set the events in motion.”

Mycroft stared at him with a self-deprecating smile. “Am I still not forgiven?”

“So you let MacNeil go knowing that the rumours circulated by you would lead his enemies to him?”

That brought Mycroft to surer ground and he grabbed it, “I would never aid the escape of a traitor, my dear doctor. MacNeil bribed his way out.”

“And you made sure that the bribe would be accepted," he bit out.

Mycroft cocked his head to one side curious, “I wonder what exactly you are angry about. Tell me, doctor, will you be visiting my cousin this summer in the country?”

The doctor started. Even the constant proximity to his fellow lodger and to some extent his time with the countess hadn’t conditioned the doctor to be immune to the abrupt leaps in conversations that the entire family seemed enamoured of. "I fear not, Mr. Holmes.”

“I see.”

The doctor bristled under the shrewd gaze. Whatever did the man mean? What exactly did he see?

“So I am to be condemned because of my class.” Mycroft emptied his tumbler and stood to pour some more, he held out the decanter enquiringly and then obliged his guest by pouring some for him as well. He brought the decanter to the table beside him.

“This club isn’t unique in its nature or existence. A select number of such establishments are tolerated and indeed nurtured by authorities in various cities. You will be hard pressed to find the true owner of the club. The authorities have never sought to arrest the person or persons involved. The premises have never been raided. The reputation of such an establishment relies on its anonymity after all and not it’s notoriety. They rely on our discretion to keep the secrets of its patrons. In exchange, the management of the club give a small number of us free access to its interiors only in matters of national importance. Indeed, only three of our department know of its existence and its address.

“In the past, the information garnered from this club has helped prevent three assassination attempts on different personages, apprehend a forger, contain riots, and once even stop a war. In exchange, the authorities turn a blind eye towards the rest of it. Not one occurrence of blackmail, broken marriage or tarnished reputation can be traced to what happens here.”

Honour among thieves, thought Watson bitterly. He wasn’t sure why Mycroft Holmes was explaining things to him.

“I am not in the habit of offering explanations, doctor. So kindly bear with me as I ramble on with this one. Even I am not sure of my reasons for this.”

Doctor Watson looked away for a moment. The room was well lit and there were no shadows to hide in. The peace offering, such as it was, was being made in sincerity. At least as much sincerity as the man in front of him was capable of. He was sure that having gauged his anger and the reasons behind it Mycroft Holmes was fully capable of offering exactly the amount of sincerity required and no more. Of offering the right words and making specific gestures. It was the nature of the beast he supposed. He was but a mere soldier.

Mycroft was still speaking, “I cannot punish the King of Bohemia. Indeed, I could have made the series of events that led us all to ---shire known to the public. But, in part I chose not to and in part I was not allowed to. For my part, I dislike admitting to a weakness. In my field of work I have come across innumerable individuals or groups of them who would callously sacrifice hundreds of their own countrymen for their greed. I have always accepted the fact that there are people standing between them and their goals. That I allowed a threat to my queen and country to burgeon to such proportions was a blow enough to my pride. However, I could and did deal with it. Significantly worse was the fact that the enemy challenged me and mine in my own home. It was unforgivable.”

Watson wasn’t sure what he should say, if he even should say anything. There were still questions swirling in his mind but there was also weary resignation, and acceptance, and sympathy and yes, forgiveness. It did feel like a ceasefire. Underlying it all was the reason for his unquestioning actions in their previous encounters. He had never stopped to ask how any one of those scars had been received. He had never questioned that the _Khalifa_ was in the wrong an the _squirrel_ was in the right.

He looked up to meet Mycroft’s eyes who asked, “Are you still angry?”

“No.”

“But you were angry.”

Watson looked away and admitted, “Yes.” 

Mycroft nodded at that and cleared his throat as he rose from his seat, “I suppose it is rather late and we must leave now. Thank you for you time, doctor.”

“The pleasure was mine,” a smile accompanied the answer.

They were both almost at the door when Mycroft paused to ask, “I’m having a gathering of sorts at the Manor next month. Several of _the squirrels_ will be there. I should like… will you join us?”

“I’d be delighted to, _Mr. Scott_.”

They parted at the door, barely acknowledging the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I am stealing all the good things that happen to Sherlock in BBC canon for my Watson and Mycroft. So Molly is now John's friend instead. Sorry.
> 
> And yes, Mycroft would make an exception and explain stuff to Watson but he would make it the most awkward and unromantic one possible.
> 
> And no Even I couldn't take the leap of doing something totally movie like and having an 'and they lived together' ending. Not in Victorian London. I could have contrived something but thats what it would have been- contrived. (too many of those things in the fic already)
> 
> But hopefully my short that I have already posted and which takes things up almost where I leave them here will make it up to you all.
> 
> Goodnight Vienna.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Soldier and the Spy fanart ii](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12395280) by [Georgefittleworth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Georgefittleworth/pseuds/Georgefittleworth)




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